


The Proper Pureblood Education of Lord Potter-Black

by idleside



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in a way), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, Death Eater Trials, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is Lord Black, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Multiple Orgasms, Older Woman/Younger Man, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Rimming, Sex Education, Verbal Sparring, Woman on Top, education during sex that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleside/pseuds/idleside
Summary: Narcissa is lucky in many ways - luckier than her former husband (who didn't survive the war), certainly, and fortunate enough to have somehow, miraculously, seen Draco cleared of all his charges.When it comes time for her own trial, she's ready to accept time in Azkaban, as long as she can still be released some day to see her son grow into an adult.She might even have been sent there, if it wasn't for the way that the new head of her House, one Lord Potter-Black, personally intervened, with his own ideas of how she can repay her debt to society.
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 48
Kudos: 414
Collections: Fandom_Nerd123_Narcissa_Harry





	1. Trial and Tribulation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DepressedAndDeadInside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepressedAndDeadInside/gifts).



> Some introductory notes:  
> \- Pretty AU, changes in who survived or died in the Second Wizarding War  
> \- I think timelines might get a bit screwed up at some points if compared to the official timeline, if in doubt, assume that Narcissa is slightly younger than canon  
> \- Very different Harry from canon. More will be explained and explored, but while he's not a /bad/ person, he's a lot more along the "ends justify the means" path than the canon Harry (or Harry from my other series, Triplicity) is  
> \- This is intended as a short-run work, no more than a few chapters in length
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa's trial is held, and Harry makes a surprising statement

Narcissa

Narcissa clasped her gloved hands delicately on her lap, the very picture of a prim and proper Pureblooded Lady, her posture arrow-straight, expression neutral in a practiced way, her dress robes and veil a dark charcoal-grey that would be suitable for mourning without – hopefully – bringing up any _darker_ associations which all-black robes might.

Lucius had fallen at some point in the Battle of Hogwarts, but (though she mercifully hadn’t witnessed his death) had apparently undergone a last-minute change of heart of some sort, having met his death not at the hands of the winning side, but at the wand of Antonin Dolohov (who was also in a grave, though none would mourn his loss). Therefore, it was appropriate for her to publicly express her _grieving_ , such that it was.

Certainly, she’d miss her former husband in some ways. He’d been a reasonably-competent ally of hers over the course of their marriage, even though his arrogance and impulsivity had come so close to dooming his house on so many occasions, but she wouldn’t have Draco without Lucius, and her son’s survival was what mattered to her now.

When Lucius’s _mistakes_ had lead to the Dark Lord himself taking residence in their manor, to Draco being press-ganged into the Death Eaters, she found that she’d lost respect for her once-husband, and once that emotion had left her, there was very little keeping her attached to either him or his memory. The childish idea of “love” had never factored in to their marriage, and it certainly didn’t colour her recollections of the late Lord Malfoy.

The door at the side of the waiting room opened, a Ministry bailiff whose name she probably _should_ have recalled (but didn’t) striding through, all puffed-up confidence and authority.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” the man spoke, “it’s time for you to take the stand.”

Narcissa nodded tersely, rising elegantly from her seat, not bothering to correct the man as to her proper name: after all, she was to be playing the part of a grieving widow, not someone who would still care about such matters. Entering the courtroom proper, she gave a polished curtsey, as was expected of her. She ignored some of the jeers and howls that immediately marked her appearance, the _slam_ of a gavel immediately silencing those voices.

As she strolled solemnly through the gallery, she was not deaf to the muttered whispers and – at times – outright _hissed_ accusations cast at her (the judge’s gavel could only do so much), making her way past the gathered assembly of Witches and Wizards ranging from “important” to “riff-raff”. Whatever their status, she wouldn’t bother herself with such meagre opinions, for the only one that would matter was that of the judge, the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Narcissa supposed that it was something of an honour for the Minister himself to preside over her trial, when she had heard that other suspected or known Death Eaters or Death Eater associates had been sent to Azkaban as nothing more than a perfunctory docket case. As she glided up the steps to take the stand, she kept her hands firmly clasped in front of her: it would _not_ do for anyone to see how the treasonous appendages were shaking. 

“State your name,” the gruff bailiff from earlier commanded her.

“Narcissa Cassiopeia Black,” she answered, with as much confidence as she could summon. Though she couldn’t guess at the reason behind it, she’d received a letter from Gringotts not days before, informing her of her re-admission to the _Black_ family rather than her married title. At first, she had panicked, wondering if they had somehow found cause to annul her marriage to Lucius, stripping Draco of his title of Lord Malfoy, but he had nervously reassured her at his last visit to her holding cell that this was not the case.

She straightened in her seat, finding new strength in the reminder that, whatever happened to her, her son walked free, his name and history alike cleared. Narcissa had even _less_ idea as to how that came to pass, and Draco had been frustratingly stubborn about discussing it, but however the miracle had occurred, it was worth it.

“Narcissa Mal… _Black_ ,” the bailiff stumbled over her name, “you stand accused of knowingly aiding and abetting Dark Magic, of transporting and smuggling Dark Artefacts, and of performing Forbidden Curses. Are you aware of the meaning of these charges?”

“I am,” Narcissa answered neutrally.

“The sentences for these charges are, respectively, jailing for up to ten years in Azkaban, a fine of up to five-hundred-thousand Galleons and jailing for up to five years in Azkaban, and jailing for fifteen years in Azkaban. Do you understand the sentences described?”

“I do,” She fought down a lump in her throat: though even the full sum of possible punishments wasn’t likely to be a _life_ sentence at her age, any of the three would be sufficient to pull her away from being able to watch Draco grow into a man.

“Do you confirm that you are in sound mind, free of the influence of any potions, charms, or other impairments, and are prepared to offer your testimony?”

“I am.”

“The Court of the Wizengamot is satisfied with these answers, and will allow the accused to speak at the discretion of Your Honour,” the bailiff concluded, sweeping into a bow towards Shacklebolt, seated in his veritable _throne_ beside her.

“Mrs. Black,” Shacklebolt’s voice was deep, but carried a slight burr of _weariness_ behind it. _Perhaps I can draw this out, take advantage of his tiredness with trials,_ Narcissa mused, before striking the idea from her mind. It was just as likely that a weary, frustrated man would throw the book at her (as the phrase went) as he would be to end the trial in a way which benefitted her. “How do you plead on these charges?”

“Not guilty,” Narcissa forced herself to appear confident, but kept her face relaxed, not wanting to seem _sneering_ or _combatant_ as she’d so often been accused of, “on all charges.”

There was another round of mutters at her plea, with one young man yelling “guilty!” from the gallery, Shacklebolt’s gavel once more slamming into his stand.

“In the matter of the three charges that have been laid against you,” Shacklebolt continued, after silencing the crowd, “do you solemnly swear that the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I swear,” Narcissa answered, “that the evidence I give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I swear upon my magic, so mote it be.”

Murmurs and a few gasps echoed through the gathered crowd at this oath, one which she had to practice dozens of times to work up the courage to utter. While she was aware that she was hardly _innocent_ in the last war, she also knew well that: she’d never killed anyone; while she was _cognizant_ of Lucius’s actions, she could hardly have put a stop to them; and that the seriousness of this oath itself would likely scare the prosecutor away from asking anything too ambiguous.

“Very well,” Shacklebolt stood from his seat, “the trial of Narcissa Cassiopeia Malfoy will now proceed. The prosecution may begin their questioning.”

“Mrs. _Black,_ ” the woman in charge of the prosecution was, again, someone who Narcissa felt like she should have recognized, a surprisingly young, tall, blonde girl ( _much like I was, once,_ she thought), but the faces all tended to blur together at this point. “We are aware that for a number of weeks, the deceased wizard who had taken the name ‘Lord Voldemort’ was residing in Malfoy Manor. Given your close proximity to him and his soldiers, called ‘Death Eaters’, what is your justification for pleading not guilty on the charge of aiding and abetting Dark Magic?”

_Well, I wasn’t expecting it to be easy._

“The Dark Lord,” Narcissa began, “as his followers called him, was a cruel, vindictive, and altogether paranoid man. _Voldemort_ ,” she continued, forcing the name from her lips, “did not come to stay at Malfoy Manor because it was a place for him to reside among allies, but as a means of enforcing loyalty through terror and threats.”

“These traits of Voldemort are well-known,” the prosecutor – _Penny something-or-other, perhaps? –_ continued, “but terror alone does not absolve one from their responsibility in planning atrocities, or aiding in murderous pursuits.”

“By the time that Voldemort was among us,” Narcissa fidgeted her hands, out of view under the walls of the stand, “my former husband had fallen out of favour among his followers, had come to be seen as too ‘soft’ or ‘cowardly’ for their cause. I do not deny that Lucius was responsible for pushing measures of so-called Blood Purity, but by the time that the Death Eaters were murdering and torturing once again, he had been reduced to little more than a household servant.”

“And the tortures committed by your former sister, Bellatrix Lestrange _n_ _é_ _e_ Black? Those were committed in the very cellar of your home, why did you make no efforts to release those prisoners?”

“I _tried_ ,” Narcissa cursed herself at the outburst, immediately tamping down on the emotions she felt, of the memory of Bellatrix’s wand pressed to her throat, her sister’s sing-song voice cheerfully describing all the tortures that _Narcissa_ could experience, “I argued at length that since it was our home, that _we_ should have control over how… _guests_ , willing or not, should be treated.”

“Hmm,” the prosecutor turned, a sneer on her face, “yet, it was _you_ who had identified Hermione Granger to the man called ‘Scabior’, dooming her to torture at the hands of your sister. You will have to explain,” the woman turned, facing the gallery instead, “how this _isn’t_ aiding the Death Eaters, in your mind.”

“I did,” Narcissa admitted, bringing a fresh round of jeers from the back of the gallery, “but I had no choice. The… Voldemort was a powerful legilimens, once I recognized her face, he would have known it was her, and the tortures would have been even worse.”

“So you say,” the prosecutor woman whirled to face her once again, “and yet it was _your_ wand that was shown to have produced several of the Cruciatus curses which Miss Granger suffered. Are you saying that you were somehow innocent in _that_ , as well?”

“I did _not_ torture anyone!” Narcissa cried out, “they… they took our wands, as punishment. Voldemort himself took Lucius’s wand once, there should be evidence of that. I have _never_ performed a Forbidden Curse, this I swear.”

“Azkaban!” A voice yelled from the gallery, and Narcissa felt a cold jolt of fear run down her spine.

“This is a grave matter,” Shacklebolt interjected, “the defendant has already sworn on her magic, which enhances the impact of her testimony. Auror Savage, your wand, please?”

The bailiff – an Auror, apparently – trod to the bench, presenting Shacklebolt with his wand, as requested.

“I do not say this lightly,” Shacklebolt spoke, his voice practically _booming_ with authority, “but I believe you have the chance to decisively prove your innocence, or guilt, on one of the charges you face.” Shacklebolt placed a single silver sickle on the stand in front of Narcissa, making a show of drawing his own wand, and then slowly, carefully extending his off-hand to her, the handle of Savage’s wand jutting from his grip.

“Now, I know that no matter what else, you are not a foolish woman,” Shacklebolt continued, “so I trust that you will not try anything foolish while I have you at wand-point. Take Mister Savage’s wand, and levitate the sickle in front of you.”

Narcissa forced her hand to stop shaking as she slowly accepted the offered wand, mostly succeeding, drawing a shuddering breath as she pointed it at the coin in front of her, drawing up memories from her childhood ( _so long ago, now)._

“ _Wingardium leviosa,”_ she proclaimed, the syllables precise, the swish of her wand measured. Surely enough, the coin lifted into the air in front of her, as she slowly lifted it into the air.

“Well, then,” Shacklebolt spoke, and the coin dropped to the stand with a _ting_ as her concentration broke, “I believe that this is sufficient evidence for _one_ of the matters we are hearing today.” His gavel slammed once more, and his voice boomed: “On the charge of performing Forbidden Curses, Narcissa Black is found **not guilty** , by virtue of magical oath.”

 _One down,_ Narcissa thought, with a thrill. The most serious of the three charges (at least in terms of jail time) was gone, meaning that even if the rest of the trial went against her, she’d be out of Azkaban by her fifties, enough of her life left to – perhaps – watch Draco raise a family of his own. _He’ll do a better job of it than we did,_ she thought, as if speaking to Lucius’s ghost.

“The matters of aiding and abetting Dark Magic, and of transporting and smuggling Dark Artefacts are unresolved,” Shacklebolt sat down again, his large frame looming in the judge’s chair. “As the former is a matter of subjective opinion, performance of a magical oath is insufficient to make a conclusive ruling. The testimony will proceed.”

“It may well be that your actions during Voldemort’s… _stay_ with you were performed under duress,” the prosecutor continued, apparently unbothered by this development, “but the list of incidents leading to the charges brought against you predate even his return. It’s known that your husband was in possession of a Horcrux, the darkest of Dark Artefacts yet known. This incident occurred in Nineteen-Ninety-Two, and you are named as an accessory.”

_What in Merlin’s name is a Horcrux?_

“I…” Narcissa stopped, trying to find the words, in a way that she was sure mustn’t look innocent, “I don’t know what a Horcrux is.”

“Oh, really?” the prosecutor frowned at her, “lucky you. They were fragments of Voldemort’s very soul, cast into material objects, able to possess and manipulate the people they came into contact with. Your former husband is known to have planted one of these hideous creations in the property of one Ginevra Weasley, who was _eleven_ at the time.”

_Lucius, no. You didn’t._

“I had no idea,” Narcissa gasped, and she didn’t even have to _act_ the shock she felt, “I…”

“You were seen in his company at the very moment he is believed to have performed this act of smuggling,” the prosecutor actually _smirked_ at her, as if her fate was sealed, “in Flourish and Bott’s, August, Nineteen-Ninety-Two.”

 _Then? He was_ miserable _for the next months, but I never found out why..._

“I don’t understand,” Narcissa answered, “I knew he argued with the Weasley family, but I don’t even recall him approaching the girl. I thought it was a matter of politics, like always.”

“Ah, yes, ‘politics’,” The prosecutor sneered, “you’re quite lucky that you haven’t been charged as an accessory to your dead husband’s long history of bribery and corruption.”

“Miss Clearwater!” Shacklebolt boomed from the bench, “comport yourself!”

“Apologies, Your Honour,” The blonde – _ah, right, Penelope Clearwater –_ bowed before continuing, “no further questions on the charge of transporting and smuggling Dark Artefacts. However, the prosecution has further questions relating to the charge of aiding and abetting Dark Magic.”

“Proceed,” Shacklebolt announced, “but stay focused on the matter at hand.”

“ _Miss Black,_ ” Clearwater turned to her once more, “When you found out that your son, Draco Malfoy, had become a marked and sworn Death Eater, what were your thoughts?”

“I was heartbroken.” Narcissa did not have to lie, exaggerate, or bend the truth on this matter.

“You counseled against this?”

“I wasn’t ever _consulted,_ ” Narcissa felt tears welling in her eyes, blinking them away, refusing to look _weak_ in front of this _girl_ , “if Lucius ever saw fit to ask my _opinion_ , it was only to ask about _social matters_ , whose wife was unhappy, who had spending habits that exceeded their wealth, and so on.”

“You mean to tell me that your son didn’t even speak to his mother about becoming a terrorist?”

“Miss Clearwater!” Shacklebolt spoke again, but Narcissa answered over him before he could censure the young prosecutor.

“He didn’t!” She yelled, insistent, “and if he had, I would have told him to flee, to leave Britain, to go somewhere far beyond the reach of the damned Dark Lord! But Draco wanted to make his _father_ proud, whatever his _mother_ might have wished of him didn’t matter, and my **son** almost died for his mistakes.”

“Hmm,” Thankfully, Clearwater didn’t smirk this time, a ripple of something that almost looked like regret crossing her face, “no further questions. The prosecution rests.”

The next minutes passed in a blur, as her own counsel (an elderly, disorganized, scatter-brained wizard named “Stump”, ridiculously enough) shuffled through his papers, asked her a few pointless and meandering questions, then closed his own questioning.

 _Well, fifteen years isn’t_ that _long,_ Narcissa resigned herself, _after all, I was married to Lucius, who apparently tried to murder children, for eighteen…_

“As there are no further questions, the Court of the Wizengamot will now decide on the matter of Narcissa Cassiopeia Black, charged with aiding and abetting Dark Magic, and transporting and smuggling Dark Artefacts.” Shacklebolt raised his gavel. “The court…”

“Your Honour!” A voice, not deep, but _ragged_ , yet still infused with a sense of authority, cried out. “I wish to make a statement!”

The figure standing in the gallery, as a silence fell in the courtroom, was perhaps the most recognizable one in all of Magical Britain. Harry Potter, himself.

“Hmm, on what grounds, Mister Potter?” Shacklebolt’s gavel hung in the air, the tension Narcissa felt manifested in its unmoving state.

“As Lord Black, by the rights afforded to my name, I will speak on behalf of this member of my house.”

_Potter? You were behind my change in name?_

“Ah, just so,” Shacklebolt’s gavel descended, but slowly, to his side. “Please, Lord Black, the floor is yours.”

Narcissa barely breathed as Potter – _no, Potter-Black, of course –_ strode from the gallery, through the gates, and barely inclined his head towards the bench.

“Your Honour,” Potter-Black spoke, “is the Court aware of the effects of Horcrux possession?”

Shacklebolt gestured towards Auror Savage, who cleared his throat and stood straighter.

“As a matter of record, Horcrux exposure is known to cause paranoia, hostility, and aggression.”

“Indeed,” the young man spoke, “ _paranoia._ As someone who is something of an _expert_ on disposing of these wretched things, and with the full authority of my House and Name alike, I will swear that I have seen great people brought low, falling into distrust and secrecy by the mere presence of a Horcrux. Therefore,” as he turned to face Narcissa, she caught a glimpse of his eyes for the first time in years, stone-cold and calculating like two emeralds, “I consider it unlikely that Lucius Malfoy would have shared his plans and plots regarding the diary of Tom Riddle with _anyone._ ”

“Furthermore,” Lord Potter-Black continued, as Narcissa took a new measure of the boy ( _no, not a “boy” any more),_ “the Ministry itself should be well aware of the influence that Voldemort managed to convey through terror and threats. Even Aurors fell victim to the fear of that specter, and he was not actively _living_ in the Ministry at the time.”

 _What is this?_ Narcissa’s thoughts spun. _The child that she’d seen fall, had lied and claimed was dead, wasn’t the man who stood before her now._ Where he’d looked innocent, even peaceful, when she’d proclaimed his false death, now he looked _fierce_ , _calculating_ , dressed in fine robes and wearing two glittering rings of his Houses on his hand.

“When it mattered most, at the Battle of Hogwarts,” Lord Potter-Black proclaimed, turning to face the gallery, “Narcissa Black found the courage to lie directly to Voldemort, knowing well the price that she’d pay if her deception were discovered. It was only this which allowed my victory, none of us would stand here today if not for her.”

“I know many of you have suffered at the hands of Voldemort’s forces, but I also know that none of you can doubt when I say that I _understand_ what that is like. I have no hesitation in seeing his former followers brought to justice, and to pay the full price of their crimes. This woman,” he pointed to her, and Narcissa felt her heart race at the _weight_ the gesture carried, “is not one of them. Azkaban would not be justice.”

“No further statements, Your Honour,” Lord Potter-Black concluded, inclining his head once more.

“In light of these statements, the Court orders a five-minute recess,” Shacklebolt banged the gavel once more, "Lord Black, a word in my chambers, if you please.”

Lord Potter-Black nodded, as the conversation in the gallery grew from “murmurs” to “cacophony”, the seconds dragging like hours as Narcissa remained seated, worrying her gloves between her fingers.

 _True, I suppose I_ did _help him, at the end,_ she calculated, _but what does he have planned? Why interject as the head of House Black, instead of the Man-Who-Won?_ Her re-assessment of the man had landed firmly in the territory of “true Pureblood Lord”, the gravitas with which he carried himself completely incongruent with his youthful age.

After a wait of nearly torturous duration ( _well, having tasted Crucio, I can survive this),_ the chamber doors reopened, with Lord Potter-Black re-entering the courtroom, not even glancing towards Narcissa, instead resolutely treading back towards the gallery.

“All rise!” Auror Savage cried, and rustles echoed through the courtroom as the gallery obeyed, Narcissa's own legs nearly shaking under her. Shacklebolt returned to his seat, settling himself in heavily. “All seated!”

“In the light of the testimony delivered today, the Court of the Wizengamot has reached a final ruling. Narcissa Cassiopeia Black is officially found not guilty of the charge of casting Forbidden Curses,” _Well, I knew that already,_ “not guilty of the charge of aiding and abetting Dark Magic,” _Thank Merlin,_ Narcissa gasped, _another potential ten years knocked off my sentence_ , “and **guilty** of the charge of transporting and smuggling Dark Artefacts. The Court sentences her to a fine of two-hundred thousand galleons, and she is to be placed under house arrest for no less than two years.”

_House arrest? That wasn’t even one of the options?_

“As the Court recognizes her role in the Second Wizarding War, the convicted will be sequestered to her ancestral home, Twelve Grimmauld Place, of House Black.”

 _…what?_ Narcissa’s head spun, trying to make sense of this outcome. The gavel crashing down a final time jolted her from her thoughts, as the earlier cacophony from the gallery returned a dozen-fold.

“Lord Black!” A voice cried, “Daily Prophet! What is your reaction to this sentence?”

“Harry!” Another yelled, “what’re you doing?”

“No comment,” the man himself announced, as Harry Potter-Black strode from the gallery, his black robes swirling around him, approaching Narcissa at the stand.

Up close, she could see how clearly his youth had ended: while not _sunken,_ his eyes were marked by black circles, there was a thick coating of stubble covering his face despite the fact that he’d clearly shaved this morning, and an utterly _unimpressed_ expression on his face.

“Right, then,” He spoke to her, his voice quiet but not _soft_ by any definition, “you’ve got tonight to pack your things, whatever they may be, then I expect you at nine in the morning, sharp. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Even without the legally-mandated aspect of his order, his statement brooked absolutely no room for any form of disagreement. All she could do was nod, which was met with a dissatisfied-looking inclination of his head (far too shallow to even be called a “nod” itself), before he turned to storm from the courtroom alone.

 _What in Morgana’s name have I found myself in?_ Narcissa wondered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SirGwain6 for the prompt for this!
> 
> Comments and initial impressions welcome :)


	2. Point and Counterpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Narcissa hold their first meeting (of many), outlining the arrangement that they will share

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All plot/conversation!

Narcissa

She took a breath as she approached the once-familiar doors of 12 Grimmauld Place, memories of her childhood coming to mind unbidden. Flanked on either side by an Auror (one named “Jenkins”, the other Auror Savage, back to his regular duties), Narcissa kept her chin high, her posture straight, as she rapped thrice against the solid oak.

Almost instantaneously, the doors swung open, revealing a tiny, ancient form within.

“Mistress ‘Cissa,” Kreacher greeted her, the elderly House Elf (really, he’d been old even when she was a child) looking up with undisguised adoration, “Kreacher is so happy that you are finally being home!”

_I wouldn’t have marked Potter as the type to keep a House Elf,_ she thought, _what with all the “liberation” this and “recognition of rights” that. Curious._

“Kreacher,” Narcissa commanded, “take my luggage to wherever I shall be staying.”

As the elf hurried to obey, bowing and muttering before her, she stepped into the foyer, taking sight of her childhood home for the first time in decades. _It seems the new Lord Black has his own opinions on decoration_ , she mused, noting how the display of portraits she’d anticipated was missing, replaced by a sprawling mural of a great red dragon ( _of all foolish things)._

“I suppose you should announce our presence,” Narcissa huffed, not deigning to direct her sentiment towards either of her guards in particular.

“Lord Potter-Black,” Jenkins spoke, drawing out the pronunciation of “Lord” practically to its breaking point in a way which Narcissa did not appreciate, “will be in his study. Lead the way, _Miss Black_.”

_So that’s how it is. Fine._

Narcissa followed the familiar steps up the main stairwell, turning left down a side hallway, making her way to the room in question. As she approached, she saw the aforementioned Lord Potter-Black seated behind his desk, a quill in hand, parchments laid out before him haphazardly.

She paused at the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged, which Potter seemed to be quite happy to delay well past the point of “impoliteness”. Narcissa cleared her throat delicately, stopping just short of her instinct to cross her arms, to begin tapping her foot impatiently.

“Hm,” the young man didn’t bother to look up from his writing, “enter.”

Despite her knowledge that she was practically twice the young Lord’s age, she couldn’t help but be struck by the impression of _seniority_ that he carried, somehow. Narcissa was _almost_ reminded of Lucius at his most calculating, during some of his particularly inspired shadow campaigns to push some act or measure through the Wizengamot.

“Aurors Savage, Jenkins,” Potter spoke, “thank you. I trust that there was no trouble?”

“None at all, Harry,” Savage answered, the familiarity with which he used the name bothering Narcissa somehow, “Miss Black was quite punctual.”

“Very good,” Potter finally deigned to look at her, his eyes boring into her own, though what measure he was taking she couldn’t tell. His evaluation apparently complete, he returned to his writing at the same time as he greeted her: “welcome, Narcissa. Gentlemen, I can handle things from here.”

As the young lord had assessed her, so too did she take the opportunity to study him in more detail, the impression he’d left with her the day before still fresh in her mind. All of her skills honed through her time in Slytherin and subsequent life as a Pureblood socialite came to bear, as she watched the way his quill began to scratch against parchment once more ( _messy handwriting, pushing too hard while writing - stressed)_ , his state of dress ( _more casual than a traditional Lord, but still wearing a shirt and trousers, freshly pressed – intentionally aiming to portray himself as unconcerned with appearances),_ his personal grooming ( _hair uncombed, but freshly shaved – sticks to routine, but only by habit rather than a desire for orderliness)_.

“Sit.” Potter commanded, gesturing at a chair in front of his desk, once again not bothering to actually look at Narcissa while addressing her. _Either unfamiliar with etiquette, intentionally being dismissive, or both._

Several long minutes passed; the study silent but for the _scritch_ ing of his quill. On finishing his task, he rose, stretching his arms above his head casually _(not an academic sort_ ), pulling a drawer at the side of his desk open, and withdrawing something from within. He walked around his desk, and Narcissa took stock of his physical condition as he did: _lithe, but not scrawny. Not unexpected given his Quidditch playing. Not tall, but thin enough that he gives the impression of height regardless. Broad across the shoulders in a way which suggests he’s finished growing, or near enough to it._

“Give me your leg,” Potter ordered, and Narcissa’s thoughts floundered.

“Pardon me?” She inquired, incredulous. _He wouldn’t have arranged my house arrest for_ that, _would he? Wasn’t he involved with the Weasley girl?_

“Your leg,” he reiterated, squaring himself up to look bigger. _Not used to giving commands, or he wouldn’t have needed to repeat himself._

Hesitantly, she extended her right leg, grateful that her dress was long enough to protect her decency while doing so. _Not that that matters if he has base intentions for me…_

Potter’s hand reached out to grasp her calf, and she noticed the surprising strength in his fingers, calluses obvious in the coarseness of his skin against hers. He produced a silver clasp with his other hand, which _clack_ ed into place around her ankle, a faint glow indicating the runes marked into the accessory.

When he released her leg, she nearly became unbalanced, not even realizing that she’d been allowing him to support the weight of her limb. Thankfully, she recovered before her poise could be shaken, quirking an eyebrow in lieu of questioning what the purpose of this _jewelry_ was.

“That,” Potter explained, as he walked back to his own seat, slumping into it with obvious _weariness_ , “is the main safeguard to ensure you serve your sentence. It’s got a variety of tracking charms inscribed, can be turned into an active portkey set to 12 Grimmauld at any time, and I would _highly_ recommend that you don’t try to remove it in any way. Then again, if you’d rather be left with one leg, that’s your choice.”

_Well, I wasn’t planning on escaping anyways._

“I suspect you have questions?” Potter spoke, his statement not _quite_ landing on the “rhetorical” side. _He’s speaking like a Hogwarts professor,_ she thought, _rather than as a Lord._

“My _Lord_ ,” Narcissa drawled the word, intent on seeing his reaction to the reminder of his status, “I am _most_ grateful that you saw fit to intervene in my trial, but I have to admit, I do not understand why I am to reside here.”

His affected authoritative demeanour practically _shattered_ as he chuckled, leaning back in his chair, his arms tucked behind his head. _Rejecting the conventions of etiquette_.

“Oh, don’t bother the whole ‘My Lord’ thing, _Narcissa_ ,” Potter smirked, “I can’t imagine that’s actually what you call me in your thoughts, anyways.” _Hmm. A legilimens?_ “I’ve got my reasons behind arguing on your behalf _and_ for your house arrest alike, but what do _you_ think they are?”

_Not bad,_ she admitted, _putting the onus back on me._

“You always have been a _merciful_ sort,” Narcissa answered, after a moment of consideration, “but I don’t think that you wanted to keep me out of Azkaban solely out of the goodness of you heart. I _did_ assist you in the last battle, after all, so, what could it be? Repaying a debt you feel you owe? Making a show of forgiving old enemies? Assuaging your own guilt?”

He didn’t reply with words, merely grinning at her, showing his teeth while doing so. It reminded her, strangely, of her cousin Sirius in his roguish youth.

“From what I know of your public reputation, the second possibility seems most likely,” she inclined her head to the side, “but from how you seemed so _unhappy_ at the result of my trial, I suspect it must be the first, perhaps with a tinge of the third.”

“Heh,” Potter’s grin collapsed into a smirk ( _churlish, youthful: not commensurate with his earlier gravitas),_ “not bad. All three of your answers approach parts of the truth, but I’m disappointed, _Narcissa_ , you missed the most obvious motivation, one I know you’re very familiar with.”

Narcissa allowed herself to lean back into her own seat, actually finding herself _entertained_ by this little game the young Lord was playing. Though it wasn’t the type of personality that she would recommend a Pureblood man cultivate, there _was_ something to be said for this level of rebellious confidence.

“You want something,” she decided, “and you didn’t get it, which is why you were displeased.”

“Ah, I should have seen that coming,” Potter actually _rolled his eyes_ , sending a spike of indignant anger through her gut, “I suppose that’s not a _wrong_ answer either, but, no, that wasn’t really my motivation. I thought with how you lot always go on about ‘duty’ and ‘honour’ that you’d have figured it out, _Miss Black._ ”

_Hmm. That doesn’t make sense. Her “lot”, as he so coarsely alluded to, were more concerned with power and scheming than either duty or honour, but then why remind her of her return to the Black family?_

_Unless…_

“If you’re referring to your own Lordship, then you obligated _yourself_ to step to my defense when you restored my name,” Narcissa connected the threads, the “duty” which he referred to must be that of the head of a Noble House.

“There you go,” Potter untangled his arms from themselves, leaning forwards to instead rest his elbows casually against his desk, “ _that_ is, in fact, the reason that I restored you, spoke in your favour, _and_ pushed for your house arrest as a sentence.”

_But if you got everything you wanted, then why the displeasure?_

“And how am I supposed to help you fulfill your _duty?”_ Narcissa was legitimately lost for possibilities.

“That’s the whole thing about ‘duties’,” Potter shrugged languidly, “I’ve no fucking clue what they actually are. You see, I find myself in need of a _tutor_ , if I’m going to do this whole ‘Lord of a Noble House’ bullshite.” _Outright anger at his own status? Resentment, obviously, but it would have been simple enough to avoid the Wizengamot altogether, he can coast on reputation alone for quite some time…_

“That’s where you come in,” that cocky grin returned to his face, “your sentence is to teach me how to be a right proper Pureblood git.”

* * *

Harry

_Three Weeks Before_

“Yeah, alright, I get it, but I don’t have to _like_ it,” Ron groused.

_You and me both,_ Harry agreed, _but like your brothers say, “sometimes you just gotta beat the bludger”._

He blinked, clearing the memory of Fred’s death before it could take over his thoughts, the Weasley twin’s heroic demise only one of a tragically long list of names that Harry had to consciously avoid repeating in his head.

“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione spoke one of her favourite phrases, “it’s the best way. There’s no point in trying to pursue _vengeance_ , we’re all better off working to help each other.”

Harry nodded along, though he suspected that Hermione and himself had very different conceptions of what “working to help each other” would entail. Though he understood Ron’s wishes, the simple fact of the matter was that various voices of reform were _still_ outnumbered in the Wizengamot, even after the most extreme results of “traditional Pureblood views” had just been displayed, defeated, and debunked yet _again_.

Even Ron hadn’t objected to Harry and Hermione taking the stand to speak in favour of Draco Malfoy being cleared of all charges ( _“at least he fought with us when it mattered”_ ), but the Weasley man chafed against Harry and Hermione’s latest plan to push the idea of granting clemency to a wider list of Slytherin students, suspected collaborators, and even family members of dead Death Eaters.

A large part of Harry liked the idea even less than Ron did, his darker thoughts preferring a long drop with a sudden stop as a more fitting end than Azkaban when it came to some of the more notorious examples like Lord Parkinson (to say nothing of merely being _fined_ as punishment), but Harry’s ability to _reason_ won out over that side of himself. _Besides, mate,_ he thought, _if they ever try to start another war, I’ll be right beside you when we cut them down._

“Well, we’ve got King on our side,” Hermione, as always, was happy to thoroughly analyze every facet of a topic, “and when he’s confirmed as the Minister officially, rather than interim, that buys at least a few years where we can bet on being able to pass laws.”

“Who would’ve thought,” Ron grumbled, “we just won a bloody war, and now we get rewarded by spending the rest of our lives in bloody _politics_.”

“They do say that war is a political action, you know,” Hermione frowned, as she flipped pages back and forth in one of her thick notebooks, “so, really, this is just the next battle for us, yeah?”

Harry knew that he should have felt exhausted by the prospect of _fighting_ any more, even if it was in the political arena rather than in duels and frantic spellfire, but he found himself strangely _inspired_ by the plans which his friends were helping him to develop.

It had only been a few weeks since he and Hermione had first sat down and seriously discussed the next steps after the Second Wizarding War had ended, but already many of Harry’s preconceptions and plans had shifted in major ways. Spurred by the way that the _Daily Prophet_ had made a fuss out of his public assumption of House Black, Hermione had uncovered specific quirks and loopholes in the way that the Wizengamot was structured which made Harry, specifically, uniquely capable of actually enacting _change_ to that byzantine organization.

Votes in the Wizengamot – _of bloody course –_ were assigned based on the “nobility” or history of each member’s House: minor Pureblood houses or “mixed” houses received one vote; elected representatives received two each, and then the more “prestigious” houses received additional votes up to _five_ for a “Most Ancient, Most Noble” house such as those of the former Sacred Twenty-Eight.

_It actually almost makes Muggle politics seem rational,_ Harry mused, _even if they aren’t actively being racist and evil, the system itself makes “tradition” the most powerful_ _voice, “status quo” just means “keep power in the hands of Purebloods”._

Which is precisely the reason why he found himself in a position to actually shake up this status quo: Pureblood families zealously maintained their lines of inheritance through marriage contracts, each House meticulously arranged to distribute power through the collective of Purebloods as a group, not concentrated in any one particular family.

Harry Potter-Black, as he was now called, controlled _nine_ votes in the Wizengamot by himself, and he was unmarried. When Hermione had discovered that the - archaic, sexist, and generally awful - marriage laws in the Wizarding world were written to entirely favour a Male Head of House (singular), it revealed that if Harry was strategic about who he married, he could very well become a voting bloc by himself.

_Instead of trying to negotiate and compromise for years with the traditionalist factions,_ Harry had decided, _I can_ become _the traditionalist faction_. The idea of taking wives, plural, had shocked him to his core when Hermione had revealed that “right” to him, but it meant that over the course of a single generation, the centuries-old power structure of the Wizengamot could be inverted. _He’d use their own traditions and beliefs to release their stranglehold on political power._

The problem with playing their game, of course, was that Harry had absolutely no idea what being a Pureblood Lord entailed. Ron’s dad had gamely tried his best to help educate Harry on some of the basics, but while he had nothing but respect for Arthur Weasley, the man simply wasn’t a political thinker.

_Speaking of Weasleys…_ Harry reminisced, a tinge of regret crossing his mind. Ginny and himself had never really _officially_ restarted their relationship after the war, but they’d certainly been enthusiastic about enjoying each other’s company in the months that followed. Unfortunately, neither of them fit into the other’s plans for the rest of their lives: Ginny wanted to be _young,_ to spend some time just being happy and carefree without having to fight for it, whereas Harry had immediately found a new battle to dedicate his life to.

The end to their kind-of-relationship had been amicable, and Harry had absolutely nothing but love for his ex-sort-of-girlfriend, but the form this love took had shifted seamlessly ( _easily_ , _even_ ) into one of a purely platonic nature. In an ironic way, it actually encouraged Harry’s plans for his own marriages, if he could so easily shift from romantic to platonic feelings, then perhaps he’d even come to love his future wives.

As a single celebrity who recently announced his _doubly-_ Noble status, Harry had – _arrogantly, I guess –_ assumed that finding suitable candidates wouldn’t be difficult. Of course, it had only taken a single date with a Pureblood woman (Persephone Burke, much more interested in wealth than in blood purity) for Harry to realize how out of his depth he was.

When she’d concluded their dinner date by presenting him with a marriage contract _dozens of pages_ long, containing provisions for everything from number of heirs he expected her to produce, down to very _specific_ details regarding how their sex life ( _or “matrimonial duties”_ ) would be, Harry had gone blank. He’d immediately fled to seek Hermione’s aid to draft a letter saying “I’m not ready for commitment” in the Pureblood equivalent of lawyer-speak.

“Never thought that we’d wind up counting on bloody Malfoy as an ally,” Ron’s continued grumbling disrupted Harry’s circular thoughts, “though I ‘spose that it runs in the family, given how his dad basically ran the Ministry for years.”

“I suspect his mother had just as much to do with that,” Hermione added, “she’s quite formidable, really.”

_Hmm._

“Her trial’s coming up, yeah?” Harry asked, wheels turning in his mind.

“Uh, yeah, in,” Hermione flipped to another page in her notebook, frowned, then produced a second, smaller notebook, and began perusing it, “twenty days, actually.”

Harry nodded, as he turned this information over and began to poke at the idea he was developing. The Malfoy family had proved _shockingly_ helpful at the end of the war, Draco going so far as to actively engage in combat against his former compatriots in Slytherin, Narcissa proving key to Harry’s deception after his _resurrection_ , and Lucius himself even drawing his wand against Dolohov.

Unfortunately for the former Lord Malfoy, he’d proved to be incapable of matching the fearsome Death Eater in combat, and died for it, but he quite possibly saved Remus’s life with his act of redemption, buying time for Harry’s honourary uncle to dispatch the killer for good.

_In a way, I suppose I owe her,_ Harry pondered, _but she also owes me. She might very well be_ the _expert in Pureblood society._

“Oi,” He decided, “fancy a trip to Gringotts? I think I want to look at some old marriage contracts in the Black vault.”

* * *

_Now_

_Malfoy’s mum has_ really _nice legs,_ Harry thought, before chastising himself for the ridiculousness of this thought. He didn’t struggle with the fact that he enjoyed how she squirmed uncomfortably as he latched the magical anklet to her (admittedly nice) leg, but he did give himself pause when he realized that he _enjoyed_ the way she immediately rested her leg in his hand, her _supplication_ much more intriguing than her _discomfort._

_You need to get laid, Potter,_ he grumbled, _if this is enough to set you off._

Sure, Narcissa Black was an objectively beautiful woman, but she was damn near twice his age. Of course, Witches and Wizards didn’t age the same way as non-magical people did, so while she looked every bit the _mature_ Pureblood woman that she was, she’d also apparently retained the – _er, uh, “perkiness?” – features_ of youth… _Never mind, Harry._

As he guided her through the conversation leading up to his explanation of her presence in his house, he thoroughly enjoyed watching her sit there, scheming and calculating, and yet arriving at conclusions which were only partially correct. There was certainly something to be said for the way that Slytherins seemed to – as a stereotype – presume that every social situation and interaction was a means to gain an advantage somehow, but the biggest reason that Slytherins hadn’t managed to _completely_ take over magical society was that everybody bloody well knew they were schemers.

_Ugh, not that I should be thinking along those lines. I’ll probably have to marry one, and there’s nothing more pathetic than a so-called Noble Lord who sits around bragging about his accomplishments in secondary school._

Harry kept a watchful eye on Narcissa, noticing how she perked up ( _heh,_ he internally chuckled at his own phrasing) whenever she thought she was on the verge of figuring something out, or correspondingly relaxed when she’d decided she’d solved the mystery, amusing himself by giving her the vaguest hints that he could.

When she finally reached the correct conclusion, Harry decided to undercut her look of smug self-satisfaction by explaining his plans as bluntly and straightforwardly as possible. _No better way to frustrate a schemer,_ he thought, _than by simply being honest with them._

“That’s where you come in,” Harry announced, “your sentence is to teach me how to be a right proper Pureblood git.”

He smirked at the way Narcissa’s nostrils flared, her mouth opening the slightest bit before snapping shut once more, no doubt biting down on some retort. _Nice lips, though, wouldn’t have expected that she’d do her makeup for this meeting._

“Surely,” Narcissa drawled, her disdain evident, “you are wealthy enough to afford an etiquette teacher, _Lord Potter-Black,_ even though I do not doubt their undertaking would be a substantial one.”

“Rest assured, _Miss Black,_ ” Harry retorted, “the Black family coffers are quite healthy, even with the recent _withdrawal_ on account of your activities. No, I’m afraid that the matters in which I require education are more _sensitive_ than a hired tutor would be suited for.”

He smirked as he watched Narcissa’s eyes widen, flicking down from his gaze to his body quickly, before rising to meet his once more.

“A young _hero_ like yourself could find entertainment among any number of foolish girls,” Narcissa snapped, “unless, I suppose, you wish to avoid embarrassing yourself with a poor performance?”

“Ah, _Narcissa_ ,” Harry drew her name out, watching her tense up, drawing her limbs towards herself, “there’s no need to be so _salacious_. You can comfort yourself with the knowledge that I am _quite_ capable in that arena, thank you.”

“Salacious, my Lord?” Narcissa quirked an eyebrow, which Harry noticed was _precisely_ manicured – _might have to get tips on how to style myself from her, even –_ and returned to her relaxed stance, going so far as to rest her elbows on the arm rests of the chair, “I merely referred to courtship, nothing so deviant as whatever you were imagining.”

“On the contrary, _my Lady,_ ” he licked his lips, leaning forward on his own elbows, making a show out of the display, “I do believe it’s you Purebloods who wrote the book on such _deviance_. Or perhaps it was the _contract_ that you wrote?” Narcissa crossed her arms over her chest, a nearly petulant display from a woman of her age ( _though that’s_ some _cleavage, alright…),_ “I actually had the opportunity to review a drafted contract of that nature, which was quite illuminating, and was actually the impetus that led me to seek your expertise.”

“I fail to see the relevance,” Narcissa turned a hand over, acting as if she were inspecting her nails, although Harry suspected that she _knew_ they were perfectly painted, “if you’re already negotiating contracts, then it appears you have managed to bumble your way into success of some sort all on your own, though I must admit, I’m surprised. I thought you had already dishonoured the youngest Weasley.”

“Ah, marriage contracts have changed since the time that yours was written,” Harry didn’t rise to the bait, although the smug sneer on Narcissa’s face made him consider it, “the contract that I received was much more _thorough,_ right down to the detail of specifying that buggery was acceptable no more than twice weekly. Your contract contained no such clauses, which I can only presume was an oversight that became _quite_ the _pain in the arse_ for you.”

“I already assumed that you were responsible for the dissolution of my former marriage,” Narcissa folded her hands in her lap, raising her chin to do her best to look down on Harry, “if it was an attempt at removing my son from the Malfoy line, then I am quite happy to inform you that the attempt failed.”

“No, don’t be silly,” Harry smirked at her, pleased with the way that he saw a flash of anger cross her face before it was immediately replaced with confidence, “Lord Malfoy is to be a loyal ally of Houses Potter and Black, after all. It would be the height of foolishness for me to remove one of my own assets from his position. That said, even a loyal ally is one that might stray from my goals at times, and I wished to avoid those complications.”

“You think that my loyalty is yours now, just because I am a Black once more?” Narcissa scoffed, “clearly, your knowledge of Pureblood houses is indeed lacking.”

“Oh, I’m rather counting on your disloyalty,” Harry leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms behind his head once again, stretching as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “but I’d rather it was due to your own scheming nature, rather than the compulsion of a loyalty charm.”

He cracked a grin when Narcissa’s façade broke for the merest instant, a look of shock crossing her face for but a moment.

“Hmm, you didn’t know?” Harry stretched even further, groaning contentedly, before leaning into his desk, his face propped in one hand, “that’s right, I’m afraid that your father and Abraxas Malfoy agreed you were untrustworthy, so your marriage contract included a compulsion to further the goals of House Malfoy above all others. When you attempt to manipulate me, it won’t be quite so _predictable_ , at least.” 

Narcissa failed to come up with a reply immediately, blinking a couple times ( _which for her_ , Harry suspected, _is practically the same as screaming and fainting_ ), one of her hands toying with a lock of her blonde hair.

“Hmm,” she finally made a noise, straightening in her seat and pushing her chin out in defiance, “perhaps there’s hope that you might actually learn to fit into noble society, after all. I suppose that, since I am to be imprisoned here anyways, I might as well challenge myself to make a proper Pureblood man out of you.”

“Ah, _Narcissa_ ,” Harry thoroughly enjoyed the way she _tsk_ ed in frustration ( _it’ll be fun matching wits against you)_ as he continued to needle her, “indeed, my manhood is in your hands,” the exasperated furrow of her brow one of the first actual _expressions_ he saw her make, “I’m glad that I’ve made you come around. I’m sure that it will wind up being a very pleasurable experience for both of us.”

“We’ll see if you can _handle_ it,” Narcissa snapped, her eyes narrowing, “my _Lord.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My challenge for myself with this chapter was to write Pureblood politics which made some degree of sense and wasn't /too/ much of a slog - this will be the heaviest bit of setting-building, the rest of the chapters more focused on conversation and other activities ;)
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Action and Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Narcissa discuss some of the finer details of what he has planned, and what he requires her assistance in.
> 
> Harry hosts a party.
> 
> Narcissa takes the initiative to educate Harry in important matters.

Narcissa

_Wednesday Night_

It did not take long for Narcissa to settle into a pattern of sorts in her new circumstances, coming to find that _boredom_ was the greatest danger she faced. She actually came to look forward to the times that her “host” would call on her for tutoring in some aspect of society or history, even if the topics were typically ones that most Pureblood children would have already mastered.

Occasionally, the would delve into aspects of courtship, but those days were usually cut short: Potter would grow frustrated at some obscure tradition or expectation, Narcissa would explain to him why it just made _sense_ , he’d say something insulting, she’d taunt him for his naivety, and they’d end the “lesson” there.

She certainly did not _like_ Harry Potter-Black as a person (or as her jailor), but he was relatively tolerable, mostly leaving her to her own devices rather than following her around, pestering her, as she had feared he might. Granted, he still had more than a few rough edges that required wearing down: the way in which he’d informed her “I really don’t give a fuck how you stay busy” as his explanation for her relative freedom within 12 Grimmauld Place (followed by a clarification of “well, don’t go trying to practice curses or anything”) being one particularly coarse example.

Despite those occasional reminders of his youthful lack of refinement, Narcissa _did_ have to admit to herself that she could see the makings of an actual Lord in him, such as the occasions when he’d return infuriated from a Wizengamot session, storming through the hallways with his cloak billowing, only to wind up seated in his study, _writing_ , rather than throwing things about or summoning her to rant at her.

Both behaviours, of course, were ones that Lucius had been no stranger to, and she found the fact that her former husband was _lesser_ in comparison to the young Lord Potter-Black to be an unsettling realization. Despite the vast ( _truly, vast)_ number of differences between the men, she’d also come to notice a few fleeting similarities: most superficially, Potter had started to style himself in a vaguely similar fashion ( _a lot of cloaks, and he favours red neckties_ ), but on a deeper level there seemed to be a _hunger_ present in the young lord which reminded her of Lucius in his own youth.

Not that she’d managed to puzzle out what he hungered for. This is how she found herself actually engaging Potter in something resembling casual conversation, at the conclusion of one of their tutoring sessions.

“So,” she let the word hang in the air, wetting her lips with her tongue in hesitation, “what, precisely, are you pursuing with this _education_? I doubt that it’s strictly rooted in wishing to engage in proper etiquette, given how gleefully you ignore those conventions when it suits you.”

“Why, Narcissa,” Potter smirked as he replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief, which – as surely as it foretold him making some sort of horrible joke or tiresome innuendo – she preferred over seeing his gaze hard and dark with anger, “I had no idea you cared! And here I thought you would be satisfied by watching me make a fool of myself with silverware!”

 _You_ are _absolutely_ useless _at selecting the correct utensil,_ she agreed.

“While attempting to raise your behaviour up to the level of the average Pureblooded child is no doubt thrilling,” she taunted, “I fail to see why it is necessary for you. Surely, you have the social clout necessary to get away with transgressions such as using your salad fork to eat _steak_.”

“Truly, my deepest shame,” he sighed in mock agony, and Narcissa couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the display, as uncouth as it was, “that’s what they’ll call me: Harry Potter-Black, the Man-Who-Forked-Up.”

Before she could help it, a brief laugh escaped her lips, which she quickly tamped down on. _Wouldn’t want my jailor thinking I’m getting_ familiar _with his so-called humour._

“I’m afraid it’s truly as simple as I explained earlier, I want the same thing as any callow lad does.”

“Is that so?” Narcissa didn’t believe him for a second.

“Of course,” Potter waggled his eyebrows, “women.”

“And as _I_ said before,” she sighed, exasperated, “I am sure there are any number of star-struck girls who would be happy to debase themselves in such a manner. It can’t be so easy as that.”

“Ah, but of course,” Potter leaned in to the table, planting his elbows on it in a way which he _must_ know annoyed her, “I’m not after star-struck girls. I’m looking for something with more _sophistication,_ yeah?”

“I similarly fail to understand why you’re pursuing marriage so doggedly,” Narcissa ignored his insinuation, “you clearly don’t lack in any of wealth, power, or popularity, so that only leaves the pursuit of family, in which case the Weasley girl _clearly_ would have been the best choice for producing a veritable horde of progeny.”

“I fear I may have overestimated you, Narcissa,” Potter slumped back in his chair, before actually kicking his _feet_ onto the table, “I thought you were the _expert_ in Pureblood customs, and yet you seem to be missing the most obvious explanation for why I have particularly specific requirements.”

Narcissa pursed her lips, thinking. While he seemed the sort to get bogged down by sentiment, he also didn’t appear to be pursuing a marriage for _love_ or anything so naïve, and her earlier assessment of his wealth and power seemed to be accurate. Many of the other Noble Houses had only produced a single child (as did her own marriage), so even the somewhat-antiquated custom of marrying a daughter to secure an alliance with a particular Lord seemed to be ruled out. That said, several houses had only produced _daughters_ in his generation, which meant…

“You wish to enhance your _status_ by taking over another line? That seems a bit excessive, does it not? After all, you already rule over two houses.”

_Oh._

The realization slammed into place at the same time as the words left her mouth, and she frowned, a thought of _“I suppose the nature of men does not change so quickly”_ crossing her mind.

“Ah.” Narcissa corrected herself quickly, not willing to let the young lord flaunt her neglect in consideration to her, “you seek two marriages, then. One for each line.”

“Now you’re getting the right idea,” Potter shrugged, and for some reason, the smirk had dropped from his expression, “though, to be realistic, ‘two’ might be an underestimate.”

Narcissa frowned. It had been a long time since any individual Lord had ruled over two houses at once, as most families made sure to prevent the scenario from coming to pass. In the past, there had been occasions where an heirless Lord might name one of his allies as his heir, but that was usually accompanied by the “adopted” Lord passing his own house on to _his_ heir as a means of transferring power without waiting for the elder Lord’s death.

Potter’s, _no, Potter- **Black** ’s_ circumstances were not unprecedented, but they were rare in the entire history of the Wizarding world, let alone modern times which tended to frown on such manipulations of bloodlines and estates. Granted, most of that opposition came from the so-called progressive voices in the Wizengamot, which only made it stranger that this young man intended to pursue such a _traditional_ Pureblood status.

“You intend to take a second wife as a status symbol, or perhaps as a broodmare,” Narcissa found herself growing angry, but forced her tone to remain cool, “while you pursue your _real_ marriage at the same time. Clever.”

“Hm? No, I’m quite certain I haven’t got that far,” Potter-Black’s expression seemed to be confused, “I’m afraid that’s the reason that I need your help, it’s an awful little quirk of you Pureblood’s traditions, and I want to make sure I’m navigating it as best as I can.”

“Well, clearly,” Narcissa felt a sneer cross her features, “one of your decisions must already be made. I’ll admit, it wouldn’t be a contract I would negotiate for Draco, but Granger _is_ quite the powerful witch, so your children would undoubtedly be fearsome in the ways of magic. Really, you can’t even tell she’s a mud-“

Potter-Black snapped his fingers, and Narcissa felt her jaw snap shut, her teeth _click_ ing together. Try as she might, she could neither open her mouth, nor even produce a sound from her throat.

“If you ever speak that word in my presence,” there was nothing of the _boy_ sitting before her in this moment, his eyes as lifeless as two flecks of jade, his tone iron despite his voice staying soft, “I’ll reveal that you ‘admitted’ the location of a hidden cache of Dark Artefacts to me, you’ll go to Azkaban, and you’ll never speak another word to anything but a Dementor ever again. Nod if you understand.”

Narcissa blinked back an uncharacteristic tear, then nodded slowly. Potter made a dismissive gesture with his hand, and she felt her jaw relax.

“If you must know, I’m quite committed to making sure that Hermione and Ron stay together,” Potter stood, and Narcissa tensed, but he walked past her to the bar in his office, pouring himself a substantial glass of firewhisky before returning to his seat, “they may not be the closest match, all things considered, but as much as he’ll never understand all the causes she attaches herself to, Ron will _always_ defend her when someone attacks her over it.” Potter sipped his glass, his earlier wrath seeming to drain out of him even as the whisky flowed in.

“Regardless of my personal preference to support my _best friend’s relationship with my other best friend,”_ he practically hissed the words, his displeasure with Narcissa clear, _“_ it wouldn’t do for me to marry Hermione, anyways. I mean to see her as Minister one day, and there’s absolutely no benefit in having a personal Minister of Magic if you’re also _married_ to them.”

“I…” Narcissa wet her lips once more, “I should apologize. I fear I may have misunderstood you, and I sought to hurt you by lashing out.” Potter looked at her impassively, not bothering to reply, so she continued talking, “I had assumed that the reason you intended to seek two wives was for… _carnal_ purposes. I bristled at the thought of aiding such an endeavour.”

“I’m still a bloke,” Potter admitted, but he shrugged, and the tension in the room began to dissipate, “I can’t say I’ve _never_ thought of it, y’know? But, no, I’m afraid that those _pleasurable_ pursuits really aren’t the reason I have to marry at least twice. Does the thought of a marriage for political gain upset you as much as the idea of marrying for _sexual_ enjoyment? Was your own marriage so afflicted?”

“No, of course not,” Narcissa felt _something_ at the words, but what the feeling was, she couldn’t tell, “my previous marriage was perfectly… _proper._ ”

“It’s what we all dream of, isn’t it?” Potter chuckled, a rough edge on his voice.

“There are many marriages that were worse than mine was,” Narcissa bit her lip, a nervous habit she hadn’t engaged in since she was practically Potter’s age, “and, admittedly, some that were better. Lucius never exploited me in _that_ manner, and all things considered, I’d be happy to marry him again if I were given a second chance,” she shrugged, uncaring of decorum for the moment, “my marriage gave me my son, and he’s all I have left.”

“Hmm,” Potter mused on something, staring into his glass and swirling the liquid around, “yeah. I think I understand. That will be all for tonight, thank you.”

Rising from her chair with his dismissal, Narcissa reached the doorway before Potter’s voice called out once more.

“Narcissa?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Ugh, first, I told you not to bother with that shite. Secondly, speaking of Draco, you’ll get a chance to see him soon. I’m having a _soiree_ ,” Potter raised his glass in imaginary cheers, as he horribly (and intentionally, if she guessed right) mispronounced the word, “Friday night, two weeks from now. Feel free to attend.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Narcissa felt a smile creeping at the edge of her lips, the chance to see Draco for the first time since her sentencing lifting her spirits.

* * *

_Saturday – The Middle of the Night_

Narcissa awoke to a woman’s screams, her heart immediately beginning to thunder, she hurled herself from the bed (in the room Potter had allocated her) and began to search frantically for her wand before she remembered that she didn’t _have_ her wand any more.

Potter hadn’t returned home before she’d gone to bed, which wasn’t unusual, but if she was alone in the house with – apparently – a woman being tortured, that raised a number of possibilities, all of them dangerous to her in a potentially _lethal_ fashion.

Still holding her breath, she listened to the voices, her terror almost immediately falling way to _frustration_ and a not-insignificant measure of _resentment._

A woman was screaming, yes, but unlike the memories from Malfoy Manner which had filled her awakening mind, she was fairly sure that victims of torture didn’t scream “yes, Morgana, yes” or “harder, Harry”. 

_Honestly, his bedroom isn’t even on the same_ floor _._

The noises _continued_ , and Narcissa’s frustration grew, as she fumbled in one of her dresser drawers for the “training wand” which Potter had oh-so-graciously allowed her, capable of casting only a set list of spells, commonly given to _children_ as they first began to learn magic.

Fortunately, a silencing charm was one of the options she had available, and she sighed in relief as the sounds from the floor above were muted. _No proper Lady would make an embarrassment of herself in such a way,_ she thought, though she had to admit that some part of her was morbidly curious to see if she could have puzzled out the identity of whatever _slut_ Potter was occupying himself with.

She threw herself back into bed, bringing her covers up to her chin, burying her head into her pillow. Unfortunately, no doubt due to the spike of panic she’d just felt, sleep seemed to elude her, and she wound up engaging in that most pernicious activity: _reminiscence._

Though she sincerely believed that the idea of a “sex life” was improper, ( _a wife’s duties in such activities were to provide heirs, not to comport herself in such a manner as the woman in Potter’s bed_ ), even as a young woman she had understood that men possessed _appetites_ for such acts which went beyond the requirements of reproduction.

When her marriage contract had been announced, her sisters had been all-too-happy to provide her with an extremely thorough reading list describing the activities that men were known to engage in: some acts sounded impossible to her (or if possible, extremely painful – _sodomy cannot be a pleasurable act_ ), while she could almost picture others as an appropriate means of showing matrimonial devotion.

Narcissa had been lucky that Lucius did not have any inclinations towards such acts, preferring simply to pursue the birth of heirs, which had first succeeded on the very night when she had lost her virginity. After Draco was born, and after the appropriate waiting period, they had attempted to produce a second child for some time, but were unsuccessful.

During that time in their marriage, she had noted Lucius’s apparent dissatisfaction with her, and had attempted to put some of her _education_ into action, only for him to swat her head away from his groin with muttered words, and she’d never again attempted the activity those books referred to as “sucking cock”.

By the time she was in her twenties, their efforts had mostly been restricted to Lucius taking his manhood in his own hands, only entering her at the moment of climax, but even the increased frequency of their laying together had failed to quicken her womb. When it became clear that Draco was likely to be their only child, such acts ceased altogether, and their marriage settled in to a calm, respectful arrangement, free of base desires.

That small, curious part of her _did_ wonder, however, what it would actually be like to make those sounds she had heard.

* * *

_Sunday Morning_

As was her habit, Narcissa woke early, beginning her routine of dressing, before growing impatient and deciding to simply throw a morning robe over her sleeping apparel. Narcissa doubted that the Lord of the manor and his _guest_ were likely to be awake any time soon, anyways, so she’d certainly have time to make herself tea and return to her room.

Quietly walking to Potter’s kitchen, she briefly considered summoning Kreacher to prepare her tea, before deciding against it even more quickly. Certainly, the ancient elf’s devotion hadn’t waned in his many years, but his ability to prepare a beverage that wasn’t _offensively_ bitter bloody well had.

At first, when Potter had warned her about Kreacher’s abilities in the kitchen, she’d taken it as a clumsy attempt at manipulating her into becoming self-sufficient or some drivel, but it had only taken one glance at Kreacher’s attempt at _duck a l’Orange (more like “duck a l’Bleu, really)_ for her to realize the sincerity of the caution.

Despite the number of useful household charms it was capable of, neither could her training wand prepare the tea for her, so Narcissa had forced herself to learn how to fill a kettle, boil water, and pour her own cup, as if she were a _servant_.

She was reaching up on her tip-toes, trying to fish the tin of tea bags she preferred from its location on the top shelf, when a coarse voice interrupted her.

“You’re up early,” Potter spoke from behind her, his voice raspy and _rough_ in a way that suggested he hadn’t slept at all.

“I should say the same for you,” Narcissa muttered, straining to reach the tin that remained infuriatingly past her fingertips ( _honestly, how did I even put it there?_ ), when it slid towards her on her own accord. She retrieved it, turning to face the Lord of the manor, who merely smirked, his display of wordless and wandless magic _almost_ impressive in how casual it was.

“Shall I leave the kettle on for you,” she fixed him with her gaze, “or your _guest_?”

“Ah, er,” Potter grew red, scratching at the back of his head, “you heard that, huh?”

“It was rather difficult not to,” Narcissa huffed, just now realizing the state of dress of not only herself, but of Potter: while she was wearing a robe and night dress, he was in Muggle-style clothes, a pair of loose shorts and a vest.

 _Neither of us are appropriately dressed for mixed company,_ she felt a flush of her own beginning to rise in her neck, internally cursing herself as she realized the sight that Potter must have been greeted with when he’d entered his kitchen.

“No, uh,” mercifully, Potter’s gaze was now fixed on the floor as he spoke, clearly embarrassed, “she’s left already. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Narcissa snipped, “as I said, I understand that men have… certain _interests._ Still, I thought you’d be more cautious, with what a fuss you’ve made over wanting to pursue the correct marriages.”

“Yeah, well,” Potter met her eyes now, and she noticed with a fresh spike of frustration that he bore a love bite just above one of his collarbones, “my, uh, _friend_ understands that I’m not pursuing a relationship with her.”

“Poor girl,” Narcissa _tsk_ ed, now beginning to notice the latticework of scars that seemed to cover Potter’s indecently-clothed torso, “I can only imagine what would lead a young Witch to debase herself in such a manner. Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect the same standards from one who’s not… as _traditional_ as I am.”

“Well, you’d be surprised,” Potter stepped towards her, circling past her to retrieve a mug of his own, “it just so happens that she’s a Lady, herself.”

“Oh?” Narcissa’s mind whirled into motion, there could only be a limited number of people who Potter was referring to.

“Or maybe I’m lying,” he turned to her, his eyes hooded, “just to make you jealous.”

“I can’t imagine how you’d achieve that,” Narcissa poured the now-boiling water into her teacup, “I’m returning to my quarters. Good morning, Potter.”

“Good morning, Narcissa,” he smirked, for some reason, and she squirmed under the feeling as if he was watching her as she departed his kitchen.

* * *

Friday Night – Harry’s Party

Though it pained her to do so Narcissa _could_ admit when she was wrong, and she was not only off-base in some of her presumptions, but _spectacularly_ so.

Potter was not a vague image of a generic Pureblood Lord as she had sometimes seen him, he was the clear image of a Lord of House **Black**. He effortlessly weaved through the guests he’d invited to 12 Grimmauld Place’s ballroom, socializing with stodgy old Purebloods and the younger Wizards and Witches of his generation with equal ease, cracking jokes, exchanging handshakes, and respectfully acknowledging his guests in turn.

Narcissa hadn’t been close to her uncle Orion, but from what she recalled of the man, Harry might as well have been his protege. While Sirius’s _eccentricities_ were well-known even in his youth, it had never been his gregariousness that his father took issue with, but his rebellious commitment to causes in opposition of Pureblood Noble pursuits.

She mostly stuck to the outskirts of the gathered crowd, a glass of champagne in hand, occasionally greeting a former acquaintance. Mostly, Narcissa kept her eyes peeled for one guest and one guest only. Finally, nearly half an hour after the event began, Draco made his appearance, and Narcissa could have cried at the sight of her son.

As he’d grown up, Draco had so often begun to emulate his father in all the worst ways, trying to play a role that the boy had never been fit to fulfill. By the time he was in his fifth year at Hogwarts, she often saw Draco walking about with a pinched expression on his face, disdainful of even his closest associates, and though she’d never admit it to her son (she’d insist it was a “noble” expression if asked), she couldn’t help but think that it made him resemble a rat in some way.

Now, though, his expression was easy, his body language relaxed, as he actually _grinned_ and clasped Harry’s hand with what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm when the host spotted his latest guest. _When Potter had claimed that Draco was his ally,_ she thought, _I’d thought he was merely bragging of his control over Draco, whatever form it took._ Whatever had led to the two men moving past their youthful feud, it did not appear to be a result of Harry _forcing_ Draco to follow him.

Even as she approached the pair, she saw Harry’s eyes flick towards her, before he leaned in towards Draco, saying something into his ear. Harry nodded his head in Narcissa’s direction, before clapping Draco on the shoulder and turning to converse with other guests.

“Mother!” Draco spoke, walking towards her and throwing his arms around her, an uncharacteristic display of emotions from her son, “I’m so glad to see you! You are well, I trust?”

“Never better,” she admitted, “I am even more glad to see _you_. How are you? Are the affairs of House Malfoy in order? Do you need anything? Can I assist?”

“I’m… good, actually,” Draco separated from their hug, smiling at her, “I never would have expected things would have turned out this way, but, well, I’m glad they did. Yes, House Malfoy is in order, and if I have my way, its reputation will be fully restored, except _earned_ this time.”

“You’re fulfilling the duties of your Lordship, I take it? What news of the Wizengamot?”

“Well, actually,” Draco’s face twitched, the briefest showing of nerves, “I’ve deferred the assumption of my Lordship until my graduation. Mother, I will be returning to Hogwarts, I intend to finish my education _properly_.”

 _This is unexpected,_ Narcissa realized, _Draco was a studious boy, before he got tied up in matters much bigger than him, but to put his Lordship aside, even temporarily? That’s unlike him._

“You are not being… _compelled_ to take this action, are you?” she asked, hesitantly. The earlier thoughts of Potter’s “control” returned, casting a shadow over his interaction with her son.

“Mother, nobody compels a Malfoy,” Draco spoke imperiously, but his expression broke into a wry grin, and he _chuckled_ before he continued speaking, “I chose this route on my own, rest assured. If you must know, I’ve come to believe that the quality of my education was compromised,” _I’d say, the riff-raff that taught at Hogwarts…_ “by the… specific circumstances of my _reputation_.”

 _Ah,_ Narcissa realized, _Snape’s mentorship of you._

“I do not wish to deter or admonish you,” she continued, “but I am curious why you’ve now decided to emphasize academic pursuits.”

“Why, Mother,” Draco actually seemed genuinely surprised, “an education is the most valuable advantage I can acquire! I am a _Wizard_ , after all, and yet I can barely brew a potion at a fourth-year level, can hardly transfigure a bat to a rat.” _Is he actually admitting a weakness?_ Narcissa was, honestly, shocked. _I knew Lucius put a lot of work into ensuring Draco’s marks, but this is new._

“Oh, sorry,” Draco interjected, awkwardly, as he glanced at something to his left, “speaking of which, I’ve actually just spotted a classmate of mine, one who I’ve been working on a summer assignment with. I’ll write you soon!”

Before she could formulate a reply, her son swept her into another hug, then practically _scurried_ away, crossing the ballroom to speak with a short witch with dark hair. _She looks familiar,_ Narcissa frowned, looking around and seeing a similar-looking blonde not far from the brunette, _a Pureblood, at least, it appears._

“Draco is getting on _quite well_ with Miss Greengrass,” a now-familiar voice spoke from directly behind her, causing Narcissa to jump before composing herself, “far be it for me to gossip, but, why, I may even suspect that wedding bells could be in their future.”

“Potter,” Narcissa turned to face him, “I take it that Draco’s sudden pursuit of _learning_ is your doing, somehow?”

“I am shocked,” Potter acted as if he had been wounded, crossing his hands over his chest, “shocked and offended that you would make such an accusation. Why, I merely made reference to the knowledge and wisdom that Albus Dumbledore had gathered, how it had bolstered his reputation and his capability alike, and your son came to the decision to attend Hogwarts once more entirely his own.”

“Hmm.” Narcissa wasn’t _bothered_ by the revelation, but there was something vaguely _unsettling_ about Harry’s completely willing admission that he was manipulating her son into… bettering himself?

“Well, it’s about that time, I believe,” Harry spoke as Narcissa heard ballroom music begin to flow through the air, “and I have _several_ dances I’ve committed to.” He departed without further comment, leaving Narcissa standing alone at the side of the room.

She watched Draco take Astoria Greengrass – the blonde one was Daphne, after all – by the arm, leading her into a competent enough waltz, and admitted to herself that it wouldn’t be a bad match for Draco. _If he’s making the decision on his own… all the better, then._

Not wanting to overbear, Narcissa instead began to watch the _other_ young man of relevance to her, as Harry took to the floor in the company of – if she was correct – a woman of the Travers family. _Not the worst idea, but there’s too many of them all over the map in their allegiances,_ she reviewed, _too unpredictable, not prestigious enough._

As the dances continued, so too did Narcissa take measure of Harry’s various partners: the Lovegood girl was a non-starter ( _technically a Lady, yes, but entirely uninvolved with politics, likely a dance as friends_ ), Persephone Burke had whispered something to Harry that caused him to tense and laugh it off, but the most tragic event of the night (to her eyes) came when Harry danced a tango with Daphne Greengrass.

 _Greengrass is a very suitable match,_ Narcissa evaluated, _heir to her house, among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but one committed to “neutrality”, and the girl herself was one of the few Slytherins to fight on your side at the Battle of Hogwarts._ She sipped her drink, thinking, _and you’re making absolute_ pants _of the dance._

Technically, Harry seemed proficient enough, but he was being overly-cautious, keeping his body separated from Greengrass’s at a distance which went beyond “polite decorum” and into “potentially off-putting”. It didn’t seem like Heiress Greengrass was _offended_ , fortunately, her own body language stiff and uncomfortable in a way which suggested she was not an experienced dancer, _but this could cause difficulty in future pursuits_.

As the evening wound to a close, Narcissa had clearly identified the next area of improvement for her “student”: he’d absolutely have to become more comfortable being in close proximity to a woman. _Odd, that,_ she thought, _that he can take one to bed so casually, but a dance is enough to throw him off-kilter._

* * *

“Well, I must say, I’m impressed,” Narcissa announced, after the guests had left. Harry was seated in his lounge, a drink in hand. Without asking, she poured herself a glass, comfortable enough after a few months to skip the niceties. “You seem to be quite the capable host. Not to mention how you’re apparently trying to help my son without his realization.”

“Ah,” Harry clearly wasn’t _drunk,_ but he seemed more open than usual, “it’s about time that someone pointed him in the right direction, present company excluded, of course.”

“Naturally,” Narcissa slid into a chair across the table from Harry, sipping at the firewhisky. _It may not be the drink of choice for a proper Lady,_ she thought, _but that truly doesn’t matter right now._ “So, what’s your end goal, then?”

“Pardon?”

“I know that neither of us are fools,” Narcissa idly toyed with a loose lock of her hair, one that had escaped her bun, “so while I enjoy the game well enough, I’ll be more useful to you if you actually tell me _what_ you pursue with your marriages.”

“Well, isn’t this refreshing,” Harry smirked at her, “a sudden change of heart, after all this time?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Hmm,” he took a sip of his drink, “that I am, I suppose. Well, you know me, Narcissa, I’m arrogant and vain enough to presume that I think I can change the world.”

_Arrogant, perhaps, but vanity isn’t one of your foibles._

“Through marriage? You’d have to be awfully confident in your future progeny, if that’s the case.”

He chuckled in response, raising his glass towards her. “I suppose I will have to be. But, luckily, it’ll be up to me first, then up to the next generation.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Narcissa smirked, “and it didn’t work out then, or I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight. It appears that you’ve managed to subvert the ‘future generation’ quite successfully.”

“I think of it less as ‘subversion’, really, and more like helping them to better themselves.”

“I’ve heard that before, too,” Narcissa actually _had_ , in the days before she’d married, “and that also led nowhere, for the most part. That movement did wind up producing you, I suppose, but Dumbledore also tried consolidating power, and he wasn’t able to enact the changes he wanted.”

“True,” Harry pulled at his collar, loosening the knot of his tie, “but I’m not Dumbledore. I couldn’t be.”

“Dumbledore was not a great man, you know,” Narcissa swirled her glass, actually finding this open dialogue a refreshing change of pace from their usual back-and-forth exchange of insinuation.

“Dumbledore was _absolutely_ a great man,” Harry replied, “he was not a _good_ man, no, but I achieved exactly what he crafted me to do.”

 _Well, I absolutely have to circle back to that later,_ Narcissa thought, her curiosity aroused.

“True, maybe he’d have been more successful had he married,” she took a drink, “but us Purebloods are an old, stubborn institution: we simply cannot change as quickly as you would hope, no matter how nice the ideas sound.”

“Ah, that’s the goal, I suppose,” Harry had popped the top two buttons of his shirt open, at this point, “I don’t intend to _change_ your institution, I intend to _become_ your institution.”

_That’s… probably the only feasible route. The Dark Lord was certainly effective enough at manipulating the old families to his benefit._

“And your marriages will help with that? I’m sure that you’re very virile and all, but there’s only so many offspring that can be given positions in your houses.”

At this statement of hers, a grin broke across Harry’s features, but not a wry or sardonic one: _this_ expression was practically predatory.

“Interesting thing, that,” he downed his glass, “the old marriage laws, the ones that allow me to marry twice? They’re all written to benefit a male head of house. Singular.”

“Since you’re a head of Houses, plural, then...?”

“If I play it right, then I can assume the role of a head of another house, granting me a new title, granting me more votes, _and_ do so without trying one of my own houses to that marriage,” Harry smirked, and Narcissa felt a chill run up her spine, “why, if I become noble enough, make myself enough of a Pureblood lord, I rather suspect that they’ll _give_ me new houses.”

“You… you intend to father the next _generation_ of Purebloods?” this thought did not scare her as much as she thought it might, rather it felt something like _thrilling_.

“Now you’ve got it. Twenty, thirty years from now, there’ll be a bunch of family lines _obligated_ to marry into Muggleborn or Mixed-Blood families by simple virtue of the _quantity_ of my children tying off other lines, and while I know from experience that won’t be enough to guarantee their own offspring won’t somehow become blood supremacists, I figure that a few dozen votes in the Wizengamot should be enough to keep them on-track.”

 _Is this how Lucius felt, when Voldemort offered him a spot in his inner circle?_ Narcissa pondered, feeling a thrill race through her. _He intends to reshape our very society, and has charged me with shaping_ him _to do so._

“Well, you’re not going to be successful,” she taunted, “if you’re absolute shite at dancing. Get up.”

“Er,” Harry blustered, entirely thrown from his previous confidence, “what?”

Narcissa stood, walked around to his side of the table, and pulled him to his feet.

“Play that tango song again,” she ordered, “I saw you dancing with Daphne Greengrass tonight, and you’re lucky that she’s as awkward as she is, or she would have written you off as disinterested in women altogether.”

Though he quirked his eyebrow, the young lord listened, at least, waving his wand vaguely in the direction of a phonograph player, the sounds of a slow tango filling his lounge.

“Now,” Narcissa instructed, “you were right to assume that you should maintain a respectful distance,” taking his hands and placing on her back, the other in hers, “but that applies to more conservative dances. If a Pureblood lady asks you, specifically, to dance to a tango, she expects a certain level of _interest_ during one.”

“And you’re dancing a tango with me now,” Harry commented, but he did fall into the steps with her, and thankfully didn’t withdraw to a ridiculous arms-length as he had earlier.

“Yes,” Narcissa agreed, “this is _educational._ You can hardly build yourself an empire of Pureblood ladies if you’re terrified to get close to a woman’s body.”

“I’m not terrified,” he grumbled, as he drew her closer, her chest pressing into his – as was _expected_ of the dance. “I was a Triwizard Champion, you know, I learned how to dance back then.”

“Well, if I were to call on someone to fight a dragon in a ballroom,” she guided him through the next steps, “I have full faith in you. If you want to impress a woman, then appearing intimidated by her advances won’t work.”

He didn’t reply to her, but with a gleam in his eye, began to take charge of the dance – staring to lead _her_ instead of vice-versa.

“That’s a start,” she muttered, as she felt her heart hammering, “and the next dance you attend, I expect to see you- _eep_!”

 _This is_ not _a traditional step in the tango,_ she thought, finding herself turned around, her back into his front, his hand now overtop of her abdomen. _In fact, the song playing now isn’t a tango at all._

“This,” Harry’s voice was right next to her ear, “is a _rumba_ , the next song on the album. I curated the songs at my party myself, you know.”

“Ah,” Narcissa stayed stationary, feeling his body pressed against hers, even so far as his hips pushed into her backside in a way that _somehow_ didn’t feel obscene. _Maybe he can handle physical proximity after all._ “I’m afraid I don’t know these steps.”

“Pity,” she could actually feel his breath against her ear, “maybe I’ll teach you some day.”

Narcissa realized something that she had never, _ever_ suspected she would ever give any thought to. She realized that she could feel his manhood against her. He wasn’t _hard_ , but he wasn’t _soft_ either, a vague suggestion of a _weight_ pressed against the cleft between her buttocks.

It was Harry who separated from her first, and she took a deep breath as he did, feeling a heat rise in her belly that felt entirely unfamiliar.

“I appreciate the lesson,” Harry spoke, “but it _is_ rather late. Goodnight, Narcissa.”

“Goodnight,” she replied, lost for words.

* * *

In her bedroom, Narcissa paced back and forth, trying to ponder how to handle this new development. Her mind was full of _ideas_ and _memories_ of things she’d read about, but the academic aspect of her knowledge of sexuality seemed more and more difficult to keep strictly _theoretical_.

She stared at herself in the mirror, mostly-nude, a thousand different thoughts in mind. Though she was not a young woman, she had always maintained her figure (out of a sense of pride if nothing else), and in her own estimation she remained _exceedingly_ attractive. As if to reassure herself, she took a fresh account of her own body: _my breasts are full, retaining their firmness despite their size, my legs are long and elegant, and though my hips may not be wide, my buttocks are round enough to compensate._ Yes, she decided, _I am desirable._

She reached between her legs, already knowing what she’d find. Sure enough, she was _wet_. _No, not “wet”, absolutely drenched._

_Fuck._

Narcissa practically tore open her wardrobe, opening a drawer at the bottom that she hadn’t had cause to in years, the set of black, lacy lingerie within staring back at her almost _tauntingly_.

_I shouldn’t._

_But I could._

_He’s half my age._

_He’s a Noble Lord, fully grown._

_He’s my warden._

_I’d be seducing him._

_He’s the head of my house._

_He’s the head of my house, and he needs_ education _._

She was already partially dressed in the lingerie before she had fully come to her decision, putting the rest of the apparel on at a pace that was only _potentially_ “rushed”. Slipping a silk robe over herself, Narcissa trod on stockinged feet from her room, climbing the stairs as her mind raced, her heart hammered.

The light was still on in Harry’s room, the door was open.

_Practically an invitation._

Standing at the doorway, she saw him within, seated beside his bed, a book opened on his lap. His eyes left the book and went to her, and she was pleased at the way they widened in surprise, lowering, then raising again as he took her in.

“Uh, yes?” Harry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Your lesson isn’t over yet,” Narcissa announced, as she entered his bedroom, slowly sauntering over to his chair, sitting in his lap as he hurriedly placed the book aside, “I fear that you might think that Pureblood women are fearful, delicate things. We are _not_. There will be women who seduce you, and how you respond to these provocations will be of _utmost_ importance to your future plans.”

She felt him begin to harden under her, and nearly _gasped_ at the _size_ that pressed against her.

“Narcissa,” his voice carried a hint of doubt, “you don’t have to do this. You’re not obligated, I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” she took his hand, placing it on her rear, and shuddered when he squeezed, “as I said, this is a lesson, I will not have you out making conquest of the Pureblood world unless you are _magnificent_ in doing so.” Narcissa turned, straddling him face-to-face instead of sitting on his lap side-saddle. “I also _want_ to, and few have ever managed to prevent me from taking what I want.”

He pulled her hips towards him, and she hissed in a breath as she felt his member press against her own sex, through layers of silk. Harry lowered his face to hers, but she prevented him from kissing her, needing her mouth for more pressing activities.

“I’m not sure what the standards of training in modern courtship are,” she explained, rolling her hips against him, “but you should anticipate that your paramours have a basic level of knowledge in most sexual acts. Some of the more ambitioussss-“ her speech drew into a hiss as, fully hard, his cock pressed up against her entrance, “women you’ll encounter will have _no_ hesitation pushing you towards acts of particular debauchery, and you will have to maintain the strength of will to _control_ the situation.”

In saying this, she slid her hips off of his, watching his eyes gravitate towards her cleavage. Narcissa began to reach behind herself to unfasten her brassiere, but was pleased when Harry reached forward to do so himself. She was even _more_ pleased at the desperate, gasping breath he took when her breasts swung free.

“If you are in negotiations for a marriage contract,” she continued, running her hands up Harry’s thighs, noticing the tense muscle under her fingers, “then certain acts may or may not count, in themselves, as signing that contract.” Narcissa unfastened his belt, then his trousers, Harry lifting his hips to assist her in removing them. “If you are _not_ yet at the stage of negotiation, then you have more leeway, though some houses may press for marriage as compensation if you engage in anything especially _deviant_.”

Narcissa rubbed her thighs together as she ran her hand along Harry’s manhood, gripping it over his underwear. _Merlin._ Though her basis for comparison was limited, she was fairly sure that he was _substantially_ above the average Wizard in both length and girth.

Despite her efforts to remain in control, she couldn’t help but moan when she pulled his underwear down, his cock springing free with enough force to slap against his own belly. He hurriedly began divesting himself of his shirt, as she ran her fingertips around his belly, then down the junction where his legs met his hips.

“I wasn’t aware that a blowjob is seen as _deviant_ ,” Harry spoke, his voice wavering only slightly.

“It’s not,” Narcissa admitted, before she leaned forward to take him into her mouth.

_Morgana._

_The books_ really _don’t prepare you for the reality._

Narcissa tried her best to recall everything that she’d read, everything that she’d prepared for in the moment when she actually meant to perform this act, but she found that her thoughts became difficult to arrange around the presence of _cock_ in her mouth. The only thought she could coherently form was _“more”,_ sliding her lips down Harry’s length, coming no more than half-way before she felt him hit the back of her throat.

Reaching her limit ( _for now_ , the thought came), she instead chose to entertain herself by testing the various techniques she’d seen described: swirling her tongue around the head of his member, sucking forcefully until her cheeks hollowed, bobbing her head back and forth to rub her lips against him, and various combinations thereof.

“Fuck, Narcissa,” Harry groaned above her, as she released him from her mouth with an audible _pop_ , “where did you-“

“You must be particularly careful with virgins,” she interrupted him, not wishing to spend any time thinking about memories or missed opportunities when he was here, in front of her, _now_ , “different houses have their own definitions of what might count as ‘defiling’ one, which might range anywhere from attempting to impregnate them, to simply stripping them naked.” She rose from her knees, sliding her breasts against Harry’s cock as she, removing her panties in the process. “This can be a ruse to blackmail you for money or political favours, to force you into an unfavourable contract, or to give cause for her family to duel you.”

“Reckon I’d win those,” Harry choked, staring at her body.

“Mm,” Narcissa hummed, stepping over him, lining his member up with her sex, hesitating only for a moment, “I agree.”

She lowered herself, gasping as he entered her.

“You okay?” Harry muttered, his hands resting on her hips, cautiously stopping her motion.

“It’s… been a long time,” Narcissa admitted, placing her hands overtop of his, repositioning them to the much more enjoyable location of her arse cheeks, “this might help you imagine what deflowering a virgin would feel like, although you know that I am _clearly_ not one.”

She tilted her hips forward, sliding more of him inside herself, throwing her head back and _moaning,_ ignoring any concerns about propriety or decorum.

“One of,” she gasped, as he tilted his hips in turn, pushing even _deeper_ somehow, “the things,” she forced herself down, finally taking him to the base, “you should know,” she raised herself just as slowly, then dropped down, both of them gasping when she did, “is that not all women are in favour of the plots and schemes of their fathers.”

Narcissa began to gyrate slowly, moving her hips first side-to-side, then rocking back and forth, crying out when Harry’s cock brushed against a sensitive area near the front of her sex.

“Sometimes,” she made a pleasurable noise when he removed one hand from her arse, instead lifting it to cup her breast, “if you’re particularly _good_ ,” he thrust upwards, and she moaned, “they might play along with _you_ instead, so that the negotiations are not affected.”

The subtle challenge to his competence was, apparently, all it took to finally set him into motion: he began to piston his hips under her, pounding up into her _cunt_ , filling her absolutely _magnificently._ Harry’s grip on her arse served to keep her pulled against him, as he ran his thumb over her nipple, the sound of _fucking_ filling his bedroom.

“Fuck!” Narcissa yelled, unabashed, “keep doing that!”

Harry, _thank fucking Morgana,_ kept doing _exactly_ that. His hips crashed against hers, the _slap slap slap_ rhythm increasing in tempo, until her world shattered and dissolved into white.

Narcissa screamed as she experienced the first orgasm that anyone else had _ever_ given her.

It was enough to unmake Harry, as she was dimly aware of him muttering “fuck” underneath her, clutching her tight, feeling his cock spasm and twitch as he reached his own orgasm.

A moment passed.

“Hmm,” Narcissa muttered, as she stood on shaky legs, “ _very_ well done. But you failed this test.”

“Uh?” Harry asked dumbly, blinking in confusion, “it sure _looked_ like you enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, I most certainly did,” Narcissa ran a hand through her hair, which must have been an absolute _disaster_ at this point, “but you just finished inside me. Were I some nubile young Pureblood you were courting, you may have just created an unintended heir.”

Harry’s face went white, as he looked to her, down between her legs, then back to her eyes.

Narcissa couldn’t help but laugh, as she reached out to stroke his face reassuringly, feeling the slightest burn of stubble under her touch.

“You have no worry about that with me,” she answered his unasked question, “that has been _permanently_ addressed. But you’d do well to keep it in mind.”

“Hm, yeah.” Harry stretched, relaxing from his earlier scare. “So, what’s next, then?”

“Well, I am going to bed,” Narcissa answered, “I am _quite_ exhausted after that.”

“I meant, uh,” Harry scratched at the back of his head, before seeming to come to a decision, “you can stay here, if you want.”

“Perhaps another time,” Narcissa smirked, ruffling his hair, “but not tonight.” She turned to leave his room, not bothering to retrieve her discarded clothing.

“You’ve left your bra,” Harry reminded her, “and your panties.”

“So I have,” she agreed, “it won’t be unusual for women to leave you souvenirs, to keep them in your thoughts.”

“Hmm,” Harry smirked at her, “well, then, goodnight, Narcissa.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Narcissa replied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that marks the longest individual chapter I've ever written!
> 
> This chapter was originally conceived of as a one-shot work on its own, but because I can't help myself, I had to build up to it /and/ plan to provide a denouement from this *climax*.
> 
> I'd love to see comments/reviews on this one! 
> 
> Also, a "vest" is a word for an undershirt in British terminology - Harry isn't standing in his kitchen looking like Aladdin or anything :P


	4. Coming and Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa and Harry explore the new dynamic they share together, including some vague plans for the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much all smut with a vague plot-like shell!

Harry

He returned home late at night in a foul mood, the latest Wizengamot session having wound up bogged down in a circle of personal vendettas and various forms of gossip which had altogether failed to even approach addressing the issue at hand. Worse, one of Harry’s more reliable allies – Susan Bones – had basically backed him into a corner, undercutting his ability to speak as one of the most visible victims of the last Wizarding War.

It was only made worse by the fact that, privately, he fully agreed with her: Pansy fucking Parkinson was absolutely _awful_ , she’d racked up a string of various incidents over her seventh year that she deserved to be punished for, and he’d be completely happy to see her stripped of her wand and sent to reside in some prison indefinitely.

Of course, if _Pansy_ were punished in such a way, then Lord Parkinson would be impossible to convince to vote for showing leniency towards others like Theodore Nott Jr. or Hestia Carrow (who had their own circumstances ranging from “extenuating” to “was actively engaged in a shadow war against her aunt and uncle”), which wound up making the fates of a variety of “traditionalist” houses dependent on the petty grudges of _each other_.

Were his own goals even slightly different, of course, Harry would be entirely happy to help the stupid Purebloods disintegrate their own holds on power, but allowing them to bicker and ruin their own futures would mean that he’d just have a _bigger_ mess to clean up twenty years from now, when they’d inevitably try to claw back to predominance through _tried and failed_ methods.

Harry flung his cloak aside, letting it drape over a chair in his lounge, as he poured himself a tall glass of firewhisky. He sunk into one of the more-plush seats in the room, swirling the glass idly, as he tried to figure out a way to save the fucking traditionalist faction from themselves.

“You seem cheerful,” Narcissa spoke as she glided into the room, as prim and proper as ever.

In the days since their dynamic had _changed_ substantially, Harry found himself appreciating Narcissa’s company more and more, and even for reasons that went beyond the surprising addition of sex to their interactions.

“If only all Purebloods were like you,” Harry sighed, “they seem dedicated to the idea of pulling each other down for the sheer _spite_ of it all.”

He watched Narcissa as she meandered over to his bar, pouring a drink of her own, appreciating the sight of her legs peeking from her skirt. Now that he’d had the chance to take _measure_ of her in the deepest ways possible, Harry wondered how it had taken him so long to take notice of just how incredible her figure was.

“One of the usual suspects, I presume?” Narcissa gracefully sauntered over to a chair across from him, _slinking_ into her seat, “Rosier? Nott?”

“No,” Harry pursed his lips, thinking – _I don’t want to come to rely on her_ too _much,_ he reminded himself, _she’ll be out from this ”arrangement” we share in just more than a year –_ before he decided to answer honestly, “Parkinson. The other two are handled, mostly.”

“Ah, and what’s the point of contention from House Parkinson?”

“His daughter, of course,” Harry took a swig of his firewhisky, “she’s one of the most publicly unrepentant holdovers from my school years, and the other houses smell blood in the water, so they’re hoping to censure her in a way which cripples Penrose himself.”

“Mm,” Narcissa hummed a response, as she took a delicate sip of her own drink, “that doesn’t surprise me, from what I recall of the girl. I’d never really been in favour of the match when she was courting Draco, but compared to some of the other possibilities…”

“Ah, like Bulstrode,” Harry agreed. Millicent was one of the other notable heirs who had failed to pay even the slightest lip service towards the idea of “reconciliation”, to the point that Harry was fairly sure that her father was considering disinheriting her in favour of one of her cousins.

 _Sure hope so,_ Harry thought, _I’m willing to overlook a lot if a marriage match provides enough benefits, but her personality is horrifying._

“Just so. Well, how did you bring the others in line? Perhaps the favour you’ve extended can be plied to convince them to show mercy on poor Miss Parkinson?”

“Rosier likes money,” Harry shrugged, “considering how filthy rich I am, he’s easy enough to ply, as you say. Nott’s easy enough in his own way, too, especially considering how it came to light that his Death Eater father liked to practice the Cruciatus curse on him. _Miss Parkinson,_ on the other hand, went far beyond anything that her parents had pushed her towards, in her own cruelties.”

“It won’t help that she tried to hand you over to the Dark Lord,” Narcissa smirked, and Harry was struck once more by how attractive she was, “who are the main voices speaking in favour of a harsh punishment?”

“Flint, Carrow, Burke, and,” Harry grimaced, “Bones.”

“Ah, isn’t Lady Bones one of your Hogwarts friends? She should be easy enough to bring in line.”

“Susan Bones, sure,” Harry took another drink, “ _Lady_ Bones, not at all. She’s making a name for herself as a particularly iron-willed sort, and she gave a rather effective speech about how ‘not everyone is willing to forgive’ as easily as I might. It’s troublesome.”

 _I don’t want to discourage it, either,_ he thought, _but I might have to figure out a way to reign her in, in the future._

“Hmm.” Naricssa leaned back, her pose much more relaxed, these days, “what are the options?”

“Well, Parkinson will be stripped of her wand,” Harry answered, “but for how long is one of the major questions. Her place of residence during this period is also an open question: her father, of course, wants her returned to his care, but others are arguing that this is too lenient, that time in the care of the Ministry would be more effective at rehabilitating her.”

“What of the others from your year?” Narcissa’s eyes sparkled with interest, “how was Nott ‘rehabilitated’, as it were?”

“Heh,” Harry chuckled, “that was bloody easy. Theo never really had a taste for the worst of the war, anyways, so I just pointed Blaise at him and let that situation resolve itself.”

“Blaise… Zabini?” Narcissa quirked an eyebrow, “how did that help?”

“Blaise was one of the ones who landed on the right side,” Harry shrugged, “I got to know him in the Slug Club, and he staked his claim on which side to bet on shortly afterwards. He wants to make a name for himself, and Theo was particularly receptive to his… _guidance._ ”

“Scandalous,” Narcissa tittered, “their relationship is not particularly public, I take it?”

“Some know,” Harry stroked at his chin in thought, “Greengrass, of his year, certainly.”

“Does she suffer the same… _predilections?_ ” Narcissa asked, and there was something calculating in her eye.

“Can’t say for certain,” Harry had his own suspicions, but he didn’t feel like they were appropriate to share yet, “but if she does, it hasn’t stopped Cyrus from trying to place her in my path.”

“She is a rather suitable match,” Narcissa agreed, “are you courting her beyond dancing awkwardly in front of her?”

“Too suitable,” Harry shook his head, “she’d be an obvious choice for a wife of one of my lines, which would then in turn set off a succession crisis unless I condensed the house into hers, which would be nothing but one step forward, two steps back.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa wet her lips with her tongue, and Harry could tell she was calculating: _if Daphne winds up being removed as Heiress of House Greengrass, somehow, then Astoria becomes the heir, which likely stands to benefit Draco particularly well…_ “do you hold any blackmail over young Parkinson?”

“No, she pretty much gleefully admits to all her many failures,” Harry sighed, “if I didn’t have designs on her House, maybe I’d just try and engineer her being married off to someone more reasonable.”

“It does sound as if Penrose would be open to negotiation,” Narcissa tapped her fingers along the edge of her glass, “perhaps you should consider if it might be beneficial to allow the others to get their way, so that you can return as a saviour later.”

“Perhaps so,” Harry agreed, stretching. “Thank you, Narcissa, this has been educational, as always.” He stood from his seat, placing his glass down, “I’m going to take a shower, I need to relax.”

 _Wonder if she’ll get the hint,_ he thought, not quite comfortable with _commanding_ her to aid in said “relaxation”.

* * *

Fortunately, she _did_. Minutes after Harry entered the shower, he heard the door slide open, and then Narcissa’s nude form pressed against his back.

“Allow me to assist you, my _Lord_ ,” she whispered into his ear, and the way that she said the title thoroughly drove any thought of correcting her from Harry’s mind.

She began to lather soap against him, and Harry couldn’t help but groan pleasurably as her hands traced skillfully over his body. He began to grow hard, feeling her bare breasts pressed against his back, her hands running over his chest, then over his abdomen. Narcissa gently guided him under the water to rinse, then turned him around, as she sunk to her knees in front of him.

“Mm,” Harry made his approval known when Narcissa took his cock into her mouth. While she wasn’t the _best_ at giving head that he’d ever experienced, the curiosity and _enthusiasm_ with which she approached the task added a tantalizing element to it all.

“Yes, Narcissa,” he encouraged her, as she bobbed against his length, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him on the back-strokes. _Fuck, she really is gorgeous,_ he thought in a pleasurable haze, looking at her blonde hair primly tied into a bun, her blue eyes staring up at him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, when she brought her hands around to his backside, pulling him even closer to herself, his cock pushing against the back of her throat. She struggled, but kept drawing him even tighter, until her nose bumped into the base of his pelvis. Narcissa coughed as she pulled off his cock, but his brief thought of reassuring her that she didn’t _have_ to deep-throat him was immediately stricken from his mind by the way that she immediately returned to pushing her mouth over his manhood, practically face-fucking _herself_ on him.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he announced, as her ministrations began to edge him towards an orgasm, and she only increased her pace, the occasional slurping sound escaping her lips as she brought his cock into her throat over and over. When Harry’s orgasm began to peak, she withdrew, one of her hands expertly replacing her mouth, stroking him quickly, _desperately_.

Harry'ss cum erupted over her tits, practically covering her in streaks of white, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“Mm,” she purred, rising to her feet, “more relaxed now?”

“Fuck,” Harry sighed, “yeah.” He stepped behind her as she rinsed herself under the shower head, pressing against her back, taking hold of one of her breasts. He ran his fingers between her legs, and she shuddered. He could feel how she was wet, and _not_ from the water.

Reaching past her, Harry turned the water off, opening the door to his shower. He muttered a quick drying charm for the both of them in lieu of taking time to towel off, guiding Narcissa out of the shower by her arm.

“Get on the bed,” Harry ordered, his voice husky, “I wish to return the favour.”

“Oh?” Narcissa smirked, a glint of challenge in her eyes. “You should know, that isn’t very traditional.”

 _Fuck tradition_ , he thought.

Wordlessly, he walked with her to his bed, pushing her into it in a way that wasn’t _rough,_ but certainly wasn’t _gentle._

“Most Lords wouldn’t conduct themselves such,” she teased as he loomed over top of her, but splayed her legs open nonetheless, “it can be seen as submitting to their wife’s whims of desire.”

Harry took one of her nipples – pink, the areola about the size of a galleon – into his mouth, biting lightly as he positioned himself on his elbows and knees, slowly trailing his mouth down her body.

 _“Submissive?”_ he thought, _we’ll see about that._

He nipped at the inside of one of her cream-coloured thighs, his hands gently stroking over her hips, before he pressed his mouth against her sex, taking a slow lick against her slit. Her taste was very vaguely reminiscent of white wine, the vaguely-sour tang sending a thrill down Harry’s spine.

As Harry took the time to explore her, he began to pick up on what she preferred: licking at her sex itself didn’t appear to do much for her, but whenever he flickered his tongue over her clit, she’d twitch and suck in a breath.

When he pursed his lips around her clit and _sucked_ lightly, her hands flew to his head, burrowing into his hair, and he smirked against her.

“ _Oh_ ,” Narcissa moaned, her voice high and almost musical.

Harry trailed the fingers of one of his hands up her thigh as he delicately licked at her clit, pushing one finger – then two – into her sopping cunt. When he hooked his fingers inside the front of her entrance, her legs _spasmed_ around his head.

His smirk returned, using his other hand to push one leg back, angling his other elbow so that it in turn pushed against the underside of her thigh, while his fingers remained inside her. The way he licked against her clit stopped being “delicate”, quick, broad lashes of his tongue taking over, as his fingers began to move faster, their motions more forceful.

Harry pushed his ring finger inside her, joining the other two, then began to move his whole hand, holding her pelvis in place with the force of his upper body.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Narcissa cursed, and Harry redoubled his efforts to reduce this Pureblood lady into a being of wanton pleasure. He latched on to her clit with his lips, sucking at her even as his tongue flicked against the tip, his fingers driving into the sensitive spot inside her.

As liquid began to pool around his fingers, Harry began to quickly lick his tongue side-to-side over the whole of her clit, and Narcissa finally broke above him. She cried out in pleasure, her legs twitching and jerking, her hips trying to raise from the bed were it not for his authoritative grasp of them.

 _Never would have pictured Narcissa as a screamer,_ he thought to himself, as Harry released her leg, raising himself up to crawl back overtop of her.

“Was that an act of submission?” He inquired, looking at the way Narcissa gasped for breath, a red blush across the top of her chest, her eyes wide and _hungry_.

“Take me,” she replied, and the desperation in her voice was enough to bring his cock back to full hardness all by itself.

Both moaned as Harry slid inside of her, Narcissa’s legs immediately coming to wrap around the backs of his thighs.

 _Fuck, she feels good,_ he thought, _so tight, so hot._

As he began to thrust, Harry immediately realized that even though this would be his second orgasm in short succession, he wasn’t going to last long, Narcissa feeling _that_ good around him. _Then again,_ he thought, _it doesn’t look like she will either._

He began to thrust harder, until his hips were pistoning against hers, her breasts bouncing wildly under him, as he leaned forward to press his mouth against her ear.

“I want you to cum for me,” Harry ordered, and nipped his teeth against her earlobe.

That was all it took for her, as she immediately _clenched_ around him, screaming wordlessly, her arms coming around to join her legs in wrapping around him, pulling him closer.

“Come inside me, Harry,” Narcissa begged, muttering into his ear in turn, “ _please_.”

Apparently, he was just as vulnerable to the tactic, as with a few more harsh thrusts, Harry groaned, pushing deep inside her even as she pulled him against her even harder, spilling his cum within her.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rolling to his side.

“Mhm,” Narcissa replied wordlessly, panting for breath.

Harry absentmindedly waved his hand in the air, dimming the lights, wanting to lose himself in the afterglow. As he felt sleep overtaking him, he noticed that Narcissa remained where she was, curling onto her side against him.

* * *

In the coming weeks, Harry and Narcissa fell into a new routine: most frequently, they’d spend the nights alone in each of their individual beds, but when either was feeling particularly “in the mood” (as she usually referred to it), they were not shy about initiating sex with one another either.

Neither did Narcissa neglect her “duties” when it came to Harry. Despite the fact that he knew he could reduce her to a wordless mess, she appeared to take his stated goal of improving his Pureblood etiquette _very_ seriously, oftentimes ambushing him with new scenarios or hypotheticals when he least expected it.

So too did she come to provide more and more counsel to him on the political challenges he faced: it didn’t take Harry long at all to realize why Lucius Malfoy had been able to so effectively subvert the Ministry, if he had _half_ of the assistance from Narcissa that Harry himself did.

It was a Saturday afternoon when the final shift to Harry and Narcissa’s dynamic came, one which saw the pair deep in discussion about two of Harry’s most pressing matters.

“You are aware, of course, that this can backfire?” she asked him.

“I’m rather counting on it,” Harry admitted, “I do, after all, want to leave the traditionalist faction on somewhat shakier ground than they now stand.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa tapped her fingernail against her bottom lip, and Harry had to force himself to not imagine something _else_ against her lips, “I think I see what you mean. Parkinson isn’t likely to be a quick study, but for all her failings the girl _does_ possess a forceful personality, whereas Greengrass does not. If her rehabilitation is only _partially_ successful, then both would wind up looking worse for it.”

“Just so,” Harry agreed. His latest plan – developed with no small part of unwitting aid from Hermione – was to pair specific Pureblood scions with each other: those who had been on the losing side of the War would “apprentice” under those who had been on _his_ side, a means of bringing the more resistant individuals into the fold alongside someone they might listen to.

Of course, where Hermione had been fully on-board with the idea of applying Muggle theories of “life coaching” to the Pureblood problem, she didn’t quite understand the end results that Harry had in mind.

“And the rumours about Greengrass, then?” Narcissa continued, pursing her lips, “that’s part of it?”

“Rumours are rumours,” Harry replied vaguely, _though Blaise’s allusions to Daphne and Tracey Davis being more than best friends are enough for me to bet on it,_ “but they do tend to colour perception, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very clever,” Narcissa drawled, sliding beside him to view the various dossiers and folders of potential matches he had laid out, “quite the long game. Parkinson is no stranger to using her appearance as a weapon, so after they’ve been paired up for a couple years… _implying_ that something more intimate has developed would be simple.”

“Their fathers would be eager for a means of proving otherwise,” Harry agreed, “and, well, if something _did_ develop, then I could promise the women themselves that I’d turn a blind eye to it as long as I could count on their support.”

“And you could negotiate them down into a marriage separate from your main lines,” Narcissa trailed her nails down his bicep, “ _very, very_ clever. So, who’s next on your list of future conquests?”

“In the immediate future,” Harry replied, “you, I imagine.”

Narcissa stroked his arm again, smirking.

“You know what I meant. I can’t be a wife of yours, no matter _how_ far you stretch the bounds of your titles. Intra-house marriage is a last resort for the desperate or depraved, and I cannot provide you heirs, besides.”

 _I’d never considered marriage,_ Harry agreed, _but neither do I think that you’ll simply disappear once your “sentence” is complete._

“Well, I certainly don’t wish to open the door for ‘concubines’ and all those old roles,” Harry let his fingers trail over Narcissa’s thigh, “but you have been _quite_ the asset to house Black, I must say.”

“It’s certainly appropriate for a young Lord to rely on an older _mentor_ ,” Narcissa tightened her grip, ever so slightly, “so it wouldn’t even be seen as strange for me to help you evaluate your matches during courtship, my _Lord_.”

Narcissa had certainly shown her _keen_ interest in helping to prepare Harry for all varieties of scenarios he might encounter in future courtships, often being something like “eager” (not that she would admit to it) to demonstrate different sex acts that could be involved.

Harry - though he tried his best to keep himself rational and calculating - was _thoroughly_ enjoying these “lessons” with the older woman, particularly the way in which Narcissa seemed to uncover tantalizing new scenarios to practice with a frequency that could only come from her _own_ hidden kinks.

“Have you given any thought to your primary lines?” Narcissa asked, even as she trailed her hand lower, now idly running her nails over his abdomen.

“That’ll be tricky,” Harry replied, the words a bit harder to find than he’d hoped, “Fleur Delacour remains single after her youthful dalliance with Bill Weasley, she certainly has her assets, but she’s seen as mixed-blood in Britain.”

“True,” Narcissa’s hand now danced along the top of Harry’s belt, “but the status you’d gain by taming a _Veela_ would likely surpass her own blood, and you’d struggle to find someone more magically powerful. To say nothing of the _personal_ benefits you’d enjoy.”

Harry grunted, partly in agreement, partly because Narcissa’s hand brushed against his member, the light touch enough to send a jolt through him even over his trousers.

“One of the Carrow twins would be another candidate,” Harry continued, his focus split between his thoughts and Narcissa’s hand on his cock, “but they each carry substantial downsides. Hestia is the more calculating of the two and more closely aligned with my causes, but she’s _so_ ruthless that it would easily be seen through as a political match. Flora is more well-liked and could be advertised as if it were a love match, but she’s actually the more cruel of the pair, and would likely target my less-noble allies.”

“You might be able to have both,” Narcissa now gripped his cock, stroking it over his pants, “the Carrows are an _old_ family, and it would be a tidy way of solving that particular inheritance issue of theirs.”

“’Sisters’ is a bit too kinky for me,” Harry admitted, sighing as Narcissa prompted him towards full hardness, “but that’s a good point: I’ll have to make sure that my primary wives are capable of _sharing_.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue,” Narcissa smirked as she brushed her lips against the side of his neck, “even though it’s mostly outdated except for _your_ plans, many Pureblood women learn of second wives and the importance of maintaining a functional household even with another woman present.” Narcissa pressed against him, her breasts crushed against his arm, “it’s even been said that, in the past, it usually fell to the wives to _amuse_ each other in such households.”

“Esmeralda Shafiq,” Harry continued, particularly intriguing images dancing in his head, “certainly alluded to such, she offered to help me select a second wife, if I married her.”

“I imagine,” Narcissa stopped stroking him briefly, but only to begin plucking at the buttons of his trousers, “that there are many things _two_ women could do for you that one alone cannot. Plus,” she whispered lasciviously, as she pulled his trousers open, “she _does_ have rather spectacular tits.”

“Persephone Burke,” Harry choked, as Narcissa’s hand darted under his pants, her fingers teasing around the head of his cock, “continues to make her _interest_ known, fuck,” he groaned, “but I’m not even sure if _I_ can handle her.”

“Oh?” Narcissa teased, “am I negligent in my duties preparing you?”

“No,” Harry sighed in pleasure as she began to stroke him directly, “but she’s made it clear that the limitations on sodomy in her draft marriage contract were put there because, otherwise, _she_ would want it more frequently. I haven’t even tried it before.”

Narcissa’s hand went still, and Harry worried if he’d offended her somehow, before she snaked around him, her face right next to his, a _gleam_ in her eye.

“I _have_ been neglecting your lessons,” Narcissa spoke, her tone positively _smoky_ , “I’ll have to correct that.”

With one final stroke along his member, Narcissa turned to leave the study, leaving Harry confused, horny, and still hard.

“Think of it as a lesson in patience,” Narcissa called over her shoulder, as Harry watched her arse while she walked off, “my _Lord_.”

 _Oh, Merlin,_ he thought, as he began to re-button his trousers, _what is she planning?_

* * *

Luckily, the ability (which Narcissa had certainly helped him to develop) to switch between an intimate situation and his _noble_ pursuits seamlessly had allowed Harry to refocus, and to continue his not-altogether-pressing task of poring over various candidates for marriage to him.

Granted, the state that Narcissa had left him in often found him focusing on the sexual possibilities for each woman, which he dutifully took note of, even if he knew that he must remain focused on the political and magical aspects of such matches.

Harry grumbled to himself, snapping his notebook shut, waving his wand to categorize and put away the various documents, letters, and family trees he had strewn about. He made his way upstairs, intending to change into more comfortable evening apparel, when he noticed that the light in his bedroom was already on.

“Terribly sorry to leave you _exposed_ in such a manner,” Narcissa greeted him, as he walked inside his bedroom, “but I had necessary preparations to carry out.”

“Oh?” Harry replied, dumbly. Narcissa was laying in his bed, covered in a silk robe, which shifted tantalizingly as she moved to place the book she’d been reading on his bedside dresser.

Instead of replying, Narcissa merely smirked, patting the bed beside herself. Harry didn’t bother arguing about who was in charge of whom, or anything so ridiculous, instead laying down beside her, where she immediately set to undressing him.

“I found some very interesting reading material,” Narcissa spoke, removing his pants and underwear, his cock falling half-hard against his belly, “and I’m pleased to report that the limited transfiguration charms I’m permitted were quite sufficient.”

“How’s that?” Harry wondered, as she shifted around, so that she faced towards his legs, kneeling beside him.

“A visual examination should be quite illuminating,” she answered, before leaning forwards, taking his member into her mouth.

 _Fuck, she loves sucking cock,_ Harry thought, _not that I’m fucking complaining._

The position wasn’t one of their usual ones when it came to this activity, but Harry appreciated the novel view: Narcissa’s breasts dangled in front of him, pressing against his legs when she lowered her head, and her arse was pushed into the air beside him, letting him appreciate both features at once.

 _Hmm, what’s this?_ He thought, catching sight of a brief glimmer.

Harry ran his hands over her sides, pushing her torso down so that her back arched further, and came to realize what Narcissa had transfigured: a jewel-style butt-plug nestled between her arse cheeks, the Black family symbol emblazoned on its cap.

 _That’s fucking ridiculous,_ Harry thought, _and fucking hot._

“I have learned,” Narcissa continued, after releasing his cock from her mouth, “that _preparation_ is key to successful anal sex. If you have paramours that are particularly interested in such pursuits, you must familiarize yourself with these steps.”

Narcissa crawled forward, so that her arse was now level with Harry’s pelvis, her chest hanging over his groin.

“I believe I might be almost stretched enough,” she explained, jerking Harry’s cock _into_ her tits, the way his head slapped against her breasts producing a whole new kind of stimulation.

Holding his breath in anticipation, Harry slowly ran his fingers around the cap of the plug, before finding purchase under it, withdrawing it from her slowly, carefully. Narcissa’s arse, of course, was as pristine as the rest of her, but he still felt a thrill of the taboo in seeing how her arsehole winked open briefly as the butt-plug was removed.

“Did the books mention,” Harry asked, his throat dry, “the importance of lubrication?”

“At _length_ ,” Narcissa drawled, “does _my Lord_ have a preference?”

Harry grasped her legs, hauling her legs over himself, pulling her hips back towards his face. He’d never done _this_ before either, but there was nothing more that he wanted in this moment.

As his tongue traced around the rim of Narcissa’s arsehole, she shuddered overtop of him, beginning to suck his cock again in the new position. Growing bolder, Harry began to plunge his tongue slightly _inside_ of her arse, bringing his hands down on her cheeks with a gentle _slap_.

“I can see some of the appeal,” Narcissa stuttered, “I think I’m ready.”

She rolled off of him, turning around so that they were lined up in what would have been a conventional “missionary” position, but for the fact that he was angled much _lower_ than usual.

“Lubricio,” Harry murmured, waving his hand over his throbbing cock, the lubrication spell taking effect with a brief shock of cold. He pressed the tip of his cock against Narcissa’s arse, looking up to her, making sure that she was ready. With a quick nod from her, Harry pushed forward, pressing against the tight ring until he slipped through it, entering her most taboo depths slowly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching Narcissa for signs of discomfort. She was breathing deeply, her breasts rising and falling, but the look in her eyes remained _fascinated._

“Start moving,” she commanded, and Harry obeyed. The slow strokes definitely felt _different_ than the forms of penetration he was used to, but if anything, it was the little pleased gasps and coos that Narcissa produced which were most appealing to him. 

When he felt she was adapted enough to the new sensation, Harry began to move a bit faster, Narcissa running her hands down his back encouragingly. The tight sensation around his cock was not quite like anything he’d felt before, so even though he couldn’t thrust with the force that he usually preferred, Harry still found this position _quite_ stimulating.

“You good?” He asked, not able to simply _take_ his pleasure, despite being told to.

“I don’t think it’s my preference,” Narcissa admitted, smirking at him, “but I like seeing how _you’re_ enjoying my arse.”

Harry chuckled, angling himself upwards so that he could thrust with a bit more control. He looked down, appreciating the taboo sight of his cock disappearing inside Narcissa’s arse, before sliding one of his fingers along her slit.

She shuddered, the sensation _incredible_ from Harry’s perspective, as he smirked at her in turn.

“You’re not _not_ enjoying it,” he teased, sliding his digit along her wetness.

“Ah,” Narcissa gasped, “I suppose I can be convinced of the merits, now, keep fucking my _arse._ ”

Harry obliged, stroking against her pussy with his fingers as he began to thrust in and out of her arse more quickly, more forcefully. By the time that Narcissa took his hand in hers, placing it directly on her clit, he was willing to be less cautious, sawing in and out of her with enough force to make her tits bounce.

“Fuck!” Narcissa cried, her legs drawing closed, her pussy spasming under his hands, and the way that her insides fluttered and clenched around him was enough to hurl Harry over the edge of his own orgasm.

After a few moments where each of them caught their breath, Harry muttered a couple gentle cleaning charms. _Not sure what’s “polite” when you just came in someone’s arse,_ he chuckled.

“Was that satisfactory?” Narcissa asked.

“I think I prefer the more traditional orifices,” Harry joked, “but I certainly enjoyed myself.”

“I did as well,” she raised herself to her elbows, and Harry couldn’t help but appreciate the way her tits jiggled in doing so, “I quite enjoyed it when you used your mouth on me.”

“I’m quite happy to eat your arse,” he propped himself on an elbow in turn, facing her, “ _or_ your pussy.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa mulled a thought, before reaching down, stroking his cock, which was still half-hard, “you don’t seem fully _satisfied_ to me.”

She pushed him so that he was on his back once more, swinging a leg over him to straddle his waist, as he grew to stiffness in her hands.

“I’m not _fulfilled_ yet either,” Narcissa teased, sliding his member against the lips of her sex.

Harry gripped her hips, then slowly pulled her down, pushing inside of her once again (thanking the cleaning charm he’d cast for making it so convenient). She was _quite_ the sight on top of him, her hair only slightly askew, but her skin flushed, her eyes hooded with lust.

Narcissa began to roll her hips against him, as he clutched her arse cheeks, kneading them absent-mindedly as she rode him. She lowered her torso, her breasts pressing against his chest, as she began to rock up and down with a steady _slap_ of skin-on-skin.

This close to her face, he could see little flashes of smiles cross her expression, hear the tiny gasps and whines that escaped her lips. As he began to push up against her, meeting her motions with his own, she craned her head forwards, and took his lips in hers.

 _Somehow, we haven’t kissed yet,_ Harry realized, as her tongue gently trailed against his, even while their motions became faster, more frantic. By the time that Harry was thrusting up into her, they were actively _snogging,_ their tongues dueling for dominance in each others’ mouths.

Harry gripped her arse tightly, pulling her down as his hips came up, thrusting as deeply into her as he could.

“Fuck,” Narcissa cried, “Harry!”

She came overtop of him, screaming, as he grew desperate in his thrusts, pounding away at her even as she rode through her orgasm. His own was not far behind, especially when she tangled her hands in his hair, crushing his lips to hers, her tongue _everywhere_.

Narcissa didn’t roll off of him, instead staying pressed to his chest, their skin sticking to each other in the afterglow of the second round. When he turned the lights off once again, she didn’t make any noises of protest, instead nuzzling her face into his shoulder.

“It turns out,” she spoke softly, “I might enjoy your company after all. Don’t go falling in love or anything foolish like that, but this is… nice.”

“It is,” Harry agreed. While he enjoyed her company and _really_ enjoyed the sex they had, he knew that there was nothing in this scenario which ended in “love”.

_More like "agreeable with each other, common political goals, and occasionally, great sex"._

He was fine with that.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Narcissa murmured.

“Goodnight, Narcissa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I couldn't help but let some vague little references to the Triplicity universe filter in :P
> 
> This is pretty much where I'm wrapping up this story - I've left enough open, I think, that I might return to it later for a one-shot or something if there's particular interest in this setting/pairing/etc., but this was meant to be a short arc and it's pretty much completed the main plot I had in mind!
> 
> Comments, reviews, and the like are welcome - as are suggestions for future short fics/one-shots in this setting or not!


End file.
